Flowers

Previously

…I would trace the inscription on her headstone, the letters worn smooth by time and the elements. Penelope. My Penelope. The words were a balm and a torment, a constant echo of a love that was, and a life that was not. The purple tulips, their fragile petals kissed by the morning dew, would unfurl with a quiet resilience, a testament to the enduring beauty of a life cut short, a love that, though buried, would forever bloom in the hidden garden of my heart. And beside them, the ring, a silent sentinel, a testament to a love so deep, it transcended even death.