She walked into the Lone Tree Cemetery, a single white rose in her hand. It had been exactly one year since the funeral, and she still wore the black dress of mourning. She walked to the grave of Luke Ashford and gazed at the headstone for some uncounted minutes before she spoke.

“I know I haven’t visited in a while, Luke, but I haven’t forgotten you” she said quietly. “I was thinking of you just yesterday, in fact, and a poem just bloomed in my mind. Did you plant the seed, my friend?” She smiled wistfully. “That would be just like you, to help me even though you’re gone, even though I haven’t moved on like I promised. And on your deathbed, no less! But a slow, lingering sickness was a cruel fate for someone who had so much life left in him...”

Her smile faded away, and she began fingering the long-stemmed rose in her hands, her eyes still fixed on the cold, gray headstone. “I’ve come to say sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “and I know I am late. I want to tell you my story—” She smiled bitterly. “But my heart beats too fake.”

She looked back at the rose in her gloved hands, watched as the petals fluttered gently in the autumn breeze. “I guess I’ll just stand here,” she continued after a few moments, “with my rose of white petals, and forget you won’t listen to my voice regretful.”

Her gaze returned to the headstone, and she felt a sting begin behind her eyes. “Do you remember the promise?” she asked. “Between you and I? To never give up? For always to try?” her voice cracked on the last word. She wiped away the single tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. “Of course you remember,” she said, smiling wistfully through the second and third tears that quickly followed the first. “I know you do. But…” a fourth tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve broken the promise between me and you.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” she continued desperately, as though to halt the accusations that would never come. “But… things happen, you see,” she said as another tear spilled, “when crimes such as this,” she gestured to the headstone with the rose, “happen every day, daily!” She stiffled a sob, plowing onward. “Because it is unjust, indeed, for anyone’s time to come,” she looked at the headstone meaningfully as she said these next words: “when life still lives inside one so young.

“But, I suppose it’s true, that as unjust as this is, my own crime was worse tenfold, and a bit.” She turned her eyes back to the rose and began to gently stroke the snow white petals. “For it is just like you said,” she whispered, “ ‘What a waste to die before your time is come, to just forget without a fight.’ ”

She took a deep breath and looked back to the headstone. The cold, gray headstone. What a cruel resting place for someone you love.

One last tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon a petal of the white rose in her hands—no more tears came. “And so I have come,” she said after a long pause, “to apologize to you; though, I know nothing at all can earn forgiveness true. But this is all I can say!” she cried suddenly, her voice hoarse and her eyes painfully dry. She looked back at the rose and caressed its silky petals again. Flawless, snowy white, the color of hope and promises. “And this,” she continued quietly, “is all I can hide. So, please, take my rose of white petals.” Slowly, she knelt by the grave, giving the cold petals a kiss before gently laying the rose across the headstone. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

With that, she stood and left the White Rose Cemetery as silently as she had come, leaving behind nothing but a long-stemmed rose of white petals, the symbol of a promise.