A single rose lay on his grave. Blood red, long stemmed. At the spot where his heart would have been. It lay there, through rain and shine. Just one rose, replaced everyday by a shaking hand. Just one rose compared to the bouquets of hothouse flowers on the neighboring graves. One fresh rose, as opposed to the thousands of wilting blooms around it. Just one rose, a humble sign of undying devotion.
My God.
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