side leaned farther outward than the other.
The paper stem had been strengthened with an old strip of tape that had turned amber with age.
I almost laughed.
It was easily the ugliest paper rose I had ever seen.
Then I turned it over.
Near the bottom of the stem, written faintly in pencil, was a single letter.
J.
My breath stopped.
I knew that handwriting.
I would have known it after a hundred lifetimes.
James.
My husband.
The man who had disappeared fifty-six years earlier.
I dropped into the
