By then, the roses no longer looked beautiful to me. They looked too bright. Too arranged. Too present.
I walked around the dining table slowly, studying them from every angle. Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe Daniel was in a meeting. Maybe he had chosen yellow because the florist suggested it. Maybe 100 was some package deal.
Still, my fingers felt cold.
Then I noticed something strange.
The bouquet was not arranged randomly.
Several roses in the center were arranged differently.
Almost like someone had intentionally placed them there.
I leaned closer.
The outer flowers were full and open, angled outward in a neat, circular pattern. But near the middle, a few stems sat lower, their heads tilted just slightly inward. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for me.
Curious, I started counting.
Ten rows of ten.
I counted once, then again, touching each bloom lightly as I moved through them.
Ten rows of ten.
Except one row was not entirely yellow.
One rose near the middle had a tiny red mark hidden beneath a petal.
At first, I thought it was a flaw.
Maybe a bruise. Maybe dye from another flower. I gently lifted the petal with my fingertip.
The red mark was small but deliberate.
My breath caught.
Then I found another.
And another.
There were exactly three.
Three marked roses.
My stomach dropped.
I forgot about the unanswered calls. I forgot about the sunlight on the table and the coffee mug still sitting by the sink. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing.
Three marked roses.
I had seen that pattern before.
Years ago.
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