The hospital room was a sterile expanse of white, its silence broken only by the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, a mechanical pulse in a world too still. Rose lay motionless on the crisp sheets, her pale face framed by tangled strands of chestnut hair. Tubes snaked from her arms, tethering her to machines that hummed with indifferent precision. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth her mind conjured. Beneath the fog of sedatives, her consciousness stirred, restless and heavy with memories that flickered like ghosts rising from a shadowed lake.
Her eyelids twitched faintly, a subtle rebellion against the stillness. Somewhere deep within, beyond the dull ache in her body and the haze clouding her thoughts, a memory broke free, vivid and unyielding. And then—she was no longer in the hospital.
She stood in the heart of a sun-drenched neighborhood street, bathed in golden light that spilled across the pavement like honey. The air was alive with the scent of jasmine garlands swaying from fences and the faint tang of fresh paint drying on newly touched-up gates. Bright ribbons—crimson, gold, and sapphire—fluttered from balconies, catching the summer breeze. Fairy lights crisscrossed the lane, their bulbs glinting with the promise of evening glow. Neighbors bustled around her, their voices weaving a tapestry of laughter and chatter. Someone hauled a table into a yard, its legs scraping against the cobblestones. Another strung lanterns between lampposts, humming a tune that mingled with the soft music drifting from an open window down the street.
It was a day of celebration, a day that thrummed with hope. Seventeen-year-old Rose knelt in her grandmother's garden, her hands buried in the cool, loamy soil as she trimmed the overgrown hedges. Her fingers were smudged with earth, and sweat beaded on her brow, but she didn't care. The sun warmed her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed with the heat of the day and the joy in her heart. She wore her favorite denim overalls, patched at the knees, and a loose braid that kept slipping free, strands clinging to her damp forehead.
"Careful with those shears, Rosie!" Grandma's voice called from the porch, where she sat in her wicker chair, a wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her weathered face. Her eyes, sharp despite her years, twinkled with a mix of amusement and pride.
"I'm fine, Grandma," Rose replied, her laugh bright and unburdened. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. The garden was her sanctuary, a place where she and Grandma spent countless afternoons tending roses and swapping stories. But today, the roses seemed to bloom brighter, their petals a vivid crimson against the green, as if they, too, sensed the occasion. Her father was coming home. Her big brother, too.
For nearly a year, they'd been stationed at a military base far from home, their absence a quiet ache in Rose's chest. Their letters had been her lifeline—scribbled promises on crinkled paper, stained with coffee or dust from distant roads. Coming home soon, Rosie, her father had written, his handwriting bold and steady. Be ready to hug us till we can't breathe. Her brother's notes were messier, full of teasing jabs and sketches of the city skyline. Got you a new sketchbook, kid. Better draw me something good. She'd read those words so many times they were etched into her soul, each one fueling her anticipation.
Today, the entire neighborhood had rallied to welcome them back. Banners stretched across the street, their block letters proclaiming Welcome Home, Heroes! Tables groaned under the weight of potluck dishes—freshly baked cornbread, steaming casseroles, and Grandma's famous peach cobbler. Children darted through the crowd, their giggles sharp and fleeting, while adults hung garlands and swapped stories of past homecomings. The air buzzed with a shared joy, a collective exhale after months of worry.
Rose's heart swelled as she worked, her hands moving rhythmically with the shears. She pictured her father's deep, rumbling laugh, the way he'd scoop her into a bear hug that smelled of leather and pine. She imagined her brother's lopsided grin, his habit of ruffling her hair until she swatted him away. He'd promised her that sketchbook, and she'd already planned her first drawing: the three of them together, standing in this very garden, with Grandma smiling in the background.
She glanced at the clock on the porch. Two hours had passed since morning. Four since their promised arrival time. A faint unease prickled at the edges of her excitement, but she pushed it down. The roads were winding, she told herself. Military schedules were unpredictable. They'd be here soon. Her fingers tightened around the shears, the metal cool against her palm. She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and scanned the lane. Past the fluttering ribbons and swaying lanterns, the road stretched empty, its silence a stark contrast to the festive hum around her.
The afternoon deepened, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The decorations—once vibrant, joyous—began to feel too bright, too loud against the quiet knot forming in her chest. Grandma noticed, her sharp eyes softening as she stepped beside Rose. "They're just delayed, Rosie," she said, her voice steady but laced with something unspoken. Rose nodded, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Just delayed." The words felt hollow, but she clung to them, willing them to be true.
Then, a low rumble broke the stillness. A vehicle rounded the corner. The green military jeep. Relief surged through her, so sharp it nearly knocked her off balance. She dropped the shears, her feet carrying her to the gate before she could think. "Papa! Brother!" she called, her voice bursting with a hope so fierce it burned.
But the jeep didn't slow with the familiar ease of a homecoming. It rolled forward, heavy and deliberate, its engine a low growl. The door opened, and no one stepped out. Instead, two uniformed officers emerged, their faces carved with a grimness that didn't belong on this sunlit street. One held a folded military flag, its edges crisp and final.
Rose froze, her breath catching like a stone in her throat. The world seemed to tilt, the colors too vivid, the sounds too sharp. "Miss Rose?" the officer said, his voice soft, too soft, as if he feared it might shatter her. Her lips trembled, barely forming the word. "…Yes?" He removed his cap, clutching it to his chest. His eyes held hers, heavy with regret. "There's been an accident on the hillside road…"
The words blurred, dissolving into a haze. "…vehicle lost control…" Her pulse thudded, erratic, drowning out his voice. "…no survivors." The world didn't just tilt—it collapsed. Grandma's hand flew to her mouth, a strangled sob escaping. The neighbors' chatter died, replaced by a horrified silence that pressed against Rose's ears. She stood rooted, her body a statue, her mind refusing to grasp the truth. Her father's laugh, her brother's teasing grin—erased in a single, merciless moment.
The officer stepped forward, holding out the folded flag. "I'm so sorry for your loss." Her hands moved mechanically, accepting it. The fabric was impossibly heavy, as if it carried the weight of a sky that had fallen. She clutched it to her chest, her fingers trembling against the coarse weave. The street blurred around her—the banners, the garlands, the fairy lights that would never be lit. They mocked her now, their joy a cruel echo of what was lost.
Grandma reached for her, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks, but Rose couldn't move. She stared at the empty road, willing the jeep to return, to bring them back. It couldn't be true. Not her father, who'd taught her to ride a bike and promised to dance with her at her wedding. Not her brother, who'd spent hours sketching beside her, their pencils scratching in quiet harmony. But the jeep drove away, its rumble fading into the hollow air.
The neighbors dispersed, their whispers a soft tide of pity. Grandma guided Rose inside, her touch gentle but firm. In her room, Rose sank to the floor, the flag still clutched to her chest. The tears came silently at first, hot and relentless, then in choking sobs that shook her frame. She curled around the flag, as if its weight could anchor her, as if holding it tightly enough could summon them back.
They didn't return. They never would. That was the day the sky fell. The day love vanished in an instant. The day Rose learned that heroes don't always come home.
The memory dissolved, fragile as smoke. In the hospital bed, Rose stirred, her lips parting in a soundless murmur. A faint crease etched her brow, a flicker of pain crossing her face. The heart monitor beeped on, its rhythm a faint echo of the life she'd once known. Outside, the world was dim, the night pressing against the window. One of the men who'd brought her here—a stranger with kind eyes—sat by her bedside, his gaze steady, as if willing her to wake.
In her mind, she was still seventeen, standing on that empty road, the flag heavy in her arms. The jasmine lingered in her senses, the sunlight burned her eyes, and the silence swallowed her whole. A single thought echoed through the fog of her unconscious: I'm still waiting.