No flower was supposed to bloom in the barren soil.
Yet, a single Black Rose blossomed every winter, its petals pressing too closely against the window of widower Bob Vance.
Eleanor Rise was a seamstress with a relationship with the dead was—
Beyond the pale.
Eleanor had a seeing eye–her left. It discerned shadows that wore gowns–not with exquisite sheer–and far from elegant.
They fit.
Like coffins.
The skilled embroiderer knew not only her craft–she understood the lost souls of those who had crossed the inevitable bridge.
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Late that evening, the rose’s shadow lengthened, almost stalking, across the workshop. Candlelight flickered, forming its long shape.
A man entered Eleanor’s workshop, face covered in tears.
Bob Vance. The recent widower.
“I have something to ask, Eleanor, and I must know.” Distress was in his quivering voice.
With his distress came shadows–darkness that only Eleanor could discern.
Then, whispers.
With a frosty chill.
“You’ve tried to bring back the past, haven’t you?” Her eyes passed over him, wary.
He touched his quivering fingertips, not meeting her gaze.
Abruptly, he rose. “Thank you for your time.” An almost indiscernible mumble, and he stalked out of the room.
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Bob returned to his mansion, its detailed, arched windows shuttered and shadowed.
Casting furtive glances around his garden, he planted a small thorn–one from the black rose in Eleanor’s store–and began to tend it.
It grew.
Petals, black.
Beautiful.
Thorns–unweidly. Sharp.
And whispers began.
Short. Just barely discernible.
The mirrors in Bob’s home didn’t just reflect–they came to life.
At least, the reflections within them did.
Chairs in the dining room were–
Misplaced.
As the roses’ petals drifted onto the wooden floor, there was a faint whisper.
Almost a taunt.
“You called?”
Bob’s mother, who had come to assist with his laundry, laid eyes on the dark flower.
A shrill cry.
The plate she carried clattered on the wooden floor.
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Night turned to dawn in Bob’s mansion.
The whispers grew louder.
The silverware Bob laid on the table changed positions on the dining table when he laid eyes on them.
Bob had an inkling of the reasons for the events.
He tried to uproot the single black flower in his garden.
But the plant remained rooted.
Defiant.
Its petals dropped.
Protesting.
Scattering themselves across the floor–each time he cleared them.
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At his mother’s insistence, Bob resigned himself to leaving the rose alone.
But he still heard whispers in the hallway.
He turned to look, expecting quiet.
After all, he’d left it alone.
But in the mirror, a face.
A stretched smile.
His.
And hers.
One.
The rose lingered in his garden, petals fiercely rooted in the soil.
Elegant.
Black.
Faint whispers.
“Still here.”
Across town, another black rose pressed against a window’s glass.
Eleanor Rise passed it with a grim nod.
Unheard, they grow.
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