He didn't know that morning could feel this heavy. The sun rose as usual, slipping softly behind the curtains of the room, as if trying and failing to wake him from a sleep he had not truly visited. He lay on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, watching the cracks in the walls as if they were maps of a life collapsing before him.
He slowly turned his head to the other side of the bed… emptiness awaited him. No sound of familiar breathing, no warmth of a smile he had grown accustomed to seeing every morning. The cold pillow beside him now held only traces of a memory that had left without return.
A full year had passed since the accident, yet time remained frozen inside him. The city had changed, people continued with their lives, even the relatives who visited in the first days gradually withdrew one by one. Everyone practiced forgetting… except him. He remained trapped in the same moment: the sharp sound of brakes, a choked scream, and glass scattered like daggers around her body.
He thought the pain would ease with time, but it grew heavier. He slept on the pillow as if resting his head on an open grave.
Finally, he rose from the bed, staggering toward the kitchen. The sound of the kettle boiling awakened him slightly, but it changed nothing in his empty soul. He poured coffee into a cup, sat on the chair, and stared at the rising steam. He remembered how his wife used to laugh when he burned his tongue in haste… and now, only silence remained, swallowed with every sip.
In front of him, her framed picture stood on the shelf, as if guarding him. He reached out, brushing the glass with his trembling fingers. "I wish I had gone with you…" he murmured, barely audible.
He no longer found a reason to leave the house. He had abandoned his job months ago, and his friends drifted away after giving up on trying to rescue him from his sorrow. Each day mirrored the next, until he began to lose all sense of time.
Yet on that very morning, he felt a strange need to breathe differently. He put on his heavy coat and stepped out into the street.
The city was noisy despite its coldness. Children ran toward their schools, vendors laid out their goods on the sidewalks, and cars jostled like an angry wave. He stood in the middle of the pavement, feeling alien to the scene, as if time moved for everyone else but him.
He walked aimlessly, dragging his steps until he reached a small street he had never taken before. There, an old flower shop caught his attention, its glass front decorated with vibrant colors. The flowers were arranged behind the glass as if a choir was silently playing its melodies.
He stopped. Something about the place drew him in; perhaps it held life he hadn't known since her departure.
He pushed the wooden door and entered. The scent of flowers hit him first, a blend of jasmine, roses, and lilies. He felt as though his lungs were filled with a breeze from a world he hadn't stepped into for ages.
Behind the counter stood a young woman in her early twenties, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, a warm smile painted on her face. She raised her eyes to him and spoke gently, "Hello, welcome. Are you looking for a particular bouquet?"
He remained silent. He had not expected anyone to speak kindly to him in a long time. Hesitating, he replied, "No… I don't know. I just… came in to see the place."
She chuckled lightly, as if not wanting to make him feel embarrassed. "Sometimes, flowers choose us, not the other way around."
He wandered among the shelves. Colors surrounded him from every side: deep red, pure white, bright yellow. He stood in front of a rose, instantly reminded of his wedding bouquets, and how his wife had placed a red rose in her hair that day.
A lump formed in his throat, but the girl approached him and said, "The red rose always carries stories… would you like me to tell you the story of this rose?"
He looked at her, tears in his eyes, but nodded in agreement.
She said, "People think the red rose is just a symbol of love, but in reality, it's also a symbol of courage. The closer you get to its thorns, the more you realize that love is not easy… but it is worth enduring its wounds."
Her words seeped into him like a drop of water falling on a barren rock. He kept staring at her for a long moment, then stepped away quickly, as if afraid his weakness would be revealed.
He bought a small bouquet without thinking, paid for it, and left before lingering too long. But when he stepped back onto the street, he felt his heart beating in a way he had not known for a year.
He realized only one thing: his life might have changed the moment he opened the door of that shop.