A Hundred Roses and the Winter Between Us
Emma's Pov
It had been a week since I last saw Aubrey. A week since his promise lingered in my mind — that quiet assurance of another evening together. I didn't even know if he considered it a date. Maybe it was just another one of our unspoken arrangements, something undefined yet intimate in its own way.
Still, I waited. Patiently at first. Then, as the days blurred into each other, that patience began to unravel. Did he forget about me? Did he find someone else to listen to his stories about art and meaning, someone easier to reach?
The thought sat heavily in my chest. I missed him more than I wanted to admit — his quietness, his strange calm that somehow steadied me. I didn't realize how much I had come to depend on his presence until it was gone.
Now, I'm scared — scared that I'm loving him past the point of return. Scared that this is what love really is: not gentle, not safe, but something that slowly consumes you while you keep pretending it doesn't.
Our plan was going well, at least on the surface. Emmett was practicing interview questions — not that he needed to — but I insisted anyway. Maybe it was just my nerves looking for somewhere to land. I couldn't tell if I was anxious about our plan failing... or anxious about something else entirely.
Earlier, I even replaced the open sign with a larger one, as if that would make a difference. As if a simple sign could catch his eye — the man I kept imagining might pass by, see the door closed, and decide to walk away.
I told myself it was a strategy, part of the plan. But deep down, I knew it was just hope wearing a disguise.
Since then, I've been spending more time in the café — longer shifts, slower hours. I'm afraid that if I step outside, I'll miss him. Yet sometimes, when the door stays still for too long, I wonder if maybe I should go out, just to catch a glimpse of him somewhere else.
It's a strange kind of prison — being trapped between waiting and searching. Between the fear of absence and the hope of presence.
I looked over at Emmett — glasses sliding down his nose, hair a mess, apron still on — sitting at one of the tables with a stack of papers I'd organized for him. His expression was pure irritation.Studying had always been Emmett's least favourite thing, and right now, it showed.
The longer I stayed inside the café, the more suffocated I felt. My chest tightened with every passing minute, the hum of the espresso machine suddenly too loud. I grabbed my coat.
"Emmett, I'm stepping outside for a bit," I said, already halfway to the door.
His head snapped up, eyes bright with relief. "Really? Take your time, please."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't even think about slacking off."
"Who, me?" He gave an innocent look, though the grin creeping across his face ruined it.
"When I come back," I warned, leaning against the doorway, "I'm personally going to assess you for the interview."
He groaned loudly, dragging his hand down his face. "Oh, come on. You know I'm going to get the job."
"Not with that attitude," I teased.
He let out a dramatic sigh and slammed the papers onto the table — though, with his usual lack of force, they barely rustled. "Fine, fine. Go breathe your mysterious outside air or whatever. I'll be here. Suffering."
I smiled despite myself.
I walked on snow for the first time.
It was softer than I had ever imagined — the kind of softness that barely resisted, yet still left a trace of your presence. Each step sank lightly, the sound almost melodic, like the earth whispering beneath me. The cold air bit at my cheeks, sharp and clean, and for a fleeting moment, everything inside me went still.
The world looked reborn — quiet rooftops draped in white, the dim glow of streetlights bending through the falling flakes, and the faint scent of winter — part frost, part memory. I breathed it in and thought of him.
This was the same snow Aubrey grew up with. The same cold that must have touched his skin when he was a boy, running through streets painted with this very white. Somehow, standing there, I felt closer to him — as if the snow itself was a language we both understood.
So this was the season that tied us together — fragile, fleeting, yet endlessly familiar. It felt like holding a moment that could melt away any second.
I knew so many things about Aubrey — his favorite composers, the way he painted when he couldn't sleep, the quiet sadness in his laugh. But I wanted to know him beyond those details. I wanted to know what he thought of the snow — whether it made him feel lonely or alive.
I pictured us on a park bench, the world muted under a white hush, our fingers wrapped around paper cups of steaming coffee. I'd listen as he spoke — about his childhood winters, the shops he loved, the things he feared, the people he missed. I wanted to know what shaped him, what still haunted him… and who he first gave his heart to.
The street was hushed beneath a blanket of white, each flake falling like it had nowhere else to be. My boots sank softly into the snow, leaving shallow prints that disappeared behind me as the wind brushed them away. The air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart and the sharp, metallic chill that comes only in winter.
For a heartbeat, I imagined another pair of footsteps beside mine — heavier, more deliberate. His. I could almost see him there, hands tucked in his coat pockets, the faint ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he listened to the snow crackle underfoot. But when I turned, the street was empty. My breath came out in small clouds, dissolving into the air like every unspoken word between us.
A sudden gust swept through the street, carrying with it the faint, trembling sound of a violin. I recognized the similar music. The notes curled through the cold like whispers — fragile, mournful, beautiful. My heart faltered. It wasn't him; I knew that. But still, I stood there, frozen in place, listening.
The melody had that same quiet sorrow he carried in his voice when he spoke about art — that soft ache that made everything he touched feel alive.
I tilted my face to the sky, letting the snow kiss my lashes. Each flake melted too quickly, like everything fleeting I tried to hold on to.
It hit me then — Aubrey wasn't just someone I missed. He was the silence that lingered after music faded, the warmth that haunted cold places. Even the snow, in all its beauty, seemed to remember him.
I followed the sound of the violin through the falling snow, each note pulling me closer like a quiet call. The melody drifted through the air — fragile yet achingly familiar. When I turned the corner, a small crowd stood gathered outside a florist's shop.
A young boy was playing the violin, his gloved fingers moving clumsily but with heart. The tune was unmistakable — one of Aubrey's own compositions. The air around him shimmered with it, soft and cold, as if even the snow had paused to listen.
The florist, a gentle man with graying hair tucked beneath a wool hat, stood at the doorway, handing out single roses to those who stopped to listen. The crowd smiled, dropping a few coins into the boy's case before dispersing into the street again, their laughter mingling with the music's fading echo.
When the song ended, the boy knelt to count the coins, his face glowing with pride. He handed the money to the shopkeeper, who tousled his hair with a fond smile.
I stood there longer than I meant to, watching them, the tune still lingering in my chest. Hearing Aubrey's music here, alive in someone else's hands, felt like the world was whispering his name back to me — reminding me that he was still out there, somewhere beneath this same falling snow.
"Here, Dad, it's twelve dollars. Not much… but there's hope," the boy said softly, his breath clouding in the cold air.
The shopkeeper gave a tired smile, his eyes gentle despite the lines of worry etched across his face. "Thank you, son," he murmured, patting the boy's head with a kind of tenderness that hurt to watch.
"Is it enough to pay the rent, Dad?" the boy asked, his voice small but hopeful.
The man hesitated, then shook his head. The movement was slight, but the sorrow in his eyes spoke louder than words.
I stepped forward. Both of them straightened instinctively, the shopkeeper quickly masking his fatigue behind a polite smile. "Hello, miss. How can I help you today?"
I pretended to browse, running my gloved fingers over a vase near the counter. "Hmm," I said lightly, glancing at the boy, who was watching me with open anticipation, "what would you suggest?"
"Roses, miss!" he exclaimed, the spark returning to his face. "You can never go wrong with roses!"
I tilted my head, matching the brightness in his eyes with a small smile. "Oh, really?"
He nodded eagerly, his cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement.
I looked back at the owner. "Then I'll take fifty roses."
For a moment, silence hung between us — the kind that carries disbelief. The boy's mouth fell open, his eyes widening, and even the shopkeeper's composure cracked as he blinked at me.
"Fifty?" he repeated, almost breathless.
I nodded, smiling softly. "Yes. They're beautiful… and I think I'll need that many."
I handed out the roses one by one to the children in the neighbourhood. Their laughter echoed down the street, their tiny hands clutching the flowers like treasures. In return, they kissed my cheeks — quick, innocent gestures that warmed me more than the layers I was wearing ever could.
By the time I returned to the café, the sky had already begun to turn golden, melting into shades of dusk.
"I thought you were going out for a short walk," Emmett said, not looking up from his papers, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I ignored him — or tried to — until my eyes landed on something that made me stop mid-step.
A massive bouquet of red roses sat on one of the tables, the petals glowing like fire under the café lights.
"Who are these for? And from whom?" I asked softly, tracing the edge of one rose with my fingertip. The scent clung to my skin. What a coincidence, I thought.
Emmett finally looked up, his mouth twitching. "They're for you. As for who sent them—no idea. But there's a note. Oh, and I counted — there are a hundred roses in there."
A hundred roses. For me.
I reached for the envelope tucked between the stems, the paper cool against my fingers. I didn't read it aloud. My eyes moved over the words quietly:
Dear Emma,
Sorry for not visiting you lately. I'm swamped with work and trying my best to free up some time. Please don't think I've forgotten about our promise. I think about it all the time.
For now, I only have these roses to offer — something to keep me close, so you won't forget about me.
—Aubrey Ardel
His signature followed — bold, elegant, and undeniably his.
I stared at the note, my heart stumbling over its rhythm. He hadn't forgotten.
A warmth bloomed across my face, spreading to my chest until I could barely breathe. I felt weightless — as if for the first time in days, the world had shifted back into colour.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and endless — as if the world itself was carrying his words to me.