Every evening, just as the sun began to dip low and bathe her living room in a golden glow, Margaret curled up on her favorite sofa with a cup of tea and her book. To anyone else, it looked like a simple daily ritual of a grandmother enjoying her retirement. But tonight, something was different. The moment she opened the book, her eyes widened slightly—there were lines scribbled in the margins, words that she had never seen before.
“Meet me where the roses bloom… before the clock strikes midnight.”
Her heart skipped a beat. This was her late husband’s handwriting. But he had been gone for nearly ten years. Trembling, she turned another page—more notes, guiding her like a treasure map, words only she would understand. Memories of secret places they once shared began to flood her mind.
The house grew quiet, except for the faint tick of the clock on the wall. Should she follow it? Could it be possible? With a deep breath, Margaret set the book down, clutching the scarf around her neck as though it carried his warmth. She glanced once more at the words, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
That night, as she stepped into her garden, the air was cool, and the roses glistened with moonlight. And there—where the blossoms were in full bloom—she felt it. Not a ghost, not a shadow, but the undeniable presence of love that never truly left her side.
Margaret closed her eyes, whispered a soft thank you, and for the first time in years, she felt complete.
