it with water and began arranging the roses.
Then something scraped sharply against my thumb.
“Ow.”
I jerked my hand away, expecting a thorn.
But there was no thorn.
Deep between the fresh roses was something strange.
Something yellow.
Something crushed and faded.
Paper.
Carefully, I pulled it free.
It was supposed to be a rose.
At least, I thought it was.
Someone had folded an old piece of yellow paper into a flower, but whoever made it clearly had no talent for delicate work.
The petals were uneven.
One
