chapter 2

Inside the house, the air smelled of roses and old books. Photographs lined the walls—black and white portraits of people she didn’t know, sepia-toned images of places that seemed far away in time. The girl sat nervously on a wooden chair as the woman poured tea into delicate porcelain cups, her hands steady despite her age.

Curiosity finally overcame hesitation.

“Aunty,” the girl said softly, “why do you love roses so much?”

The old lady placed her cup down, her eyes drifting to the window where a red rose leaned against the glass. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“Years ago, I was young like you. I worked in a wealthy household, cleaning floors, serving meals. And it was there that I met him—my employer. He was different from the others. Kind. Gentle. He treated me not as a servant but as a human being. Slowly, without realizing it, we… we fell in love.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She had never expected such a story.

“But society would never allow it,” the lady continued, her gaze far away. “He belonged to a world of rules and reputation. I belonged to the shadows of service. We could never be together openly. Before he left, he gave me a gift: roses. These roses.” Her fingers trembled as she touched a bloom. “I planted them here, so that his memory could live with me. Every time they blossom, it feels like he is still with me.”

The girl was silent, her heart swelling. She had always thought of love as something mutual, something seen by the world. But this… this was love that survived in silence, that bloomed even when fate tore two people apart.

 After spending time with that old lady , she left for home.

From that day, the girl’s after-college routine changed. She no longer went straight home. Instead, she walked eagerly to the flower house, where the old lady often waited in the garden. Sometimes the lady was pruning, sometimes watering, sometimes simply sitting with a cup of tea. But her face always lit up when she saw the girl.

They spent hours together. They spoke about books, about life, about small joys like the smell of rain or the taste of mangoes in summer. At times, they didn’t speak at all, just sat in the garden, letting the fragrance of roses fill the silence.

It was an unusual friendship, one that crossed generations. The girl, who had so many friends her own age, found something rare in the old lady—peace, wisdom, and honesty. And the lady, who had lived alone for years, found warmth in the girl’s youthful chatter.

The roses became the backdrop of their bond. When the girl laughed, the flowers seemed brighter. When the lady told stories, the flowers seemed to nod in agreement. Slowly, the girl began to understand something new: love wasn’t just about romance. It was about connection, about caring, about being present.

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