The morning exactly sixty days later, I opened my front door, freshly painted marigold-orange, a change from classic oak.
There lay on the welcome mat a bouquet of roses. Five crimson roses, twelve spiky leaves.
I sat there, on the floor, just staring. Gingerly, I loosened a branch from its silk-ribbon grasp. A waft of rich fragrance washed over. Small tears slipped out from my eyes.
Behind me, the orange door creaked; Holly, my roommate, peeked out with coffee-stained pants. “Breakfast?” she asked, then took in the roses.
“Five years ago today, right?” she whispered.
I sniffed. “The florist should stop.”