The florist’s tag listed the exact count.
I picked it up between two fingers and read it again, as if the number might change if I looked long enough.
One hundred yellow roses.
A round number should have felt romantic. Grand. Intentional in the sweet way people planned things for anniversaries or birthdays. But my birthday was months away. Our anniversary had already passed.
And Daniel, for all his good qualities, was not a “one hundred roses for no reason” kind of man.
He was thoughtful, yes.
Extravagant, no.
I stood there staring at them.
Yellow roses have never had a single meaning. Some people associate them with friendship. Others with jealousy.
And in some cultures, they symbolize farewell.
A final goodbye.
The thought came so clearly that I stepped back from the table.
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself.
But unease had already slipped into the room.
I reached for my phone and called my husband.
It rang.
And rang.
Then went to voicemail.
I frowned. Daniel was busy during work trips, but he usually answered if he could. If not, he called back quickly.
I sent a text.
“Did you send me flowers?”
I waited, staring at the screen.
Nothing.
A minute passed.
Then five.
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Then ten.
No answer.
I called again.
No answer.
By then, the roses no longer looked beautiful to me. They looked too bright. Too arranged. Too present.
I walked around the dining table slowly, studying them from every angle. Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe Daniel was in a meeting. Maybe he had chosen yellow because the florist suggested it. Maybe 100 was some package deal.
Still, my fingers felt cold.
Then I noticed something strange.
The bouquet was not arranged randomly.
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Several roses in the center were arranged differently.
Almost like someone had intentionally placed them there.
I leaned closer.
The outer flowers were full and open, angled outward in a neat, circular pattern. But near the middle, a few stems sat lower, their heads tilted just slightly inward. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for me.
Curious, I started counting.
Ten rows of ten.
I counted once, then again, touching each bloom lightly as I moved through them.
Ten rows of ten.
Except one row was not entirely yellow.
One rose near the middle had a tiny red mark hidden beneath a petal.
At first, I thought it was a flaw.
Maybe a bruise. Maybe dye from another flower. I gently lifted the petal with my fingertip.
The red mark was small but deliberate.
My breath caught.
Then I found another.
And another.
There were exactly three.
Three marked roses.
My stomach dropped.
I forgot about the unanswered calls. I forgot about the sunlight on the table and the coffee mug still sitting by the sink. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing.
Three marked roses.
I had seen that pattern before.
Years ago.
