A woman in white stands in a garden filled with roses the color of her clothes. In her hand is a shovel, and in the other, a candle, burning bright.
Fuchsia clouds populate the sky, and the sun burns crimson.
In front of the woman is a man with a smile on his face. He is silent.
The woman digs and digs until her white dress has become black like the sky and her hands shake. The candlelight illuminates the garden, creating wraiths and ghosts in the shadows.
The man stares at her with eyes of a doll, blank and glassy. First his feet disappear, then his legs, his torso, until the only thing visible is his head. The dirt stains his face, but he does not react.
The woman raises her shovel one last time and now even his hair has disappeared.
The red roses bloom and no one knows why. No one knows where the man has gone, either.
The woman puts down her shovel. She has the most beautiful garden in the world, and no one knows her secret but her.
((Reposted from my Inkvite.))