Then it was gone.
Elara opened the box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a single rose. It was the color of old blood—a deep, almost black crimson. And it was perfect. Every petal was intact, velvety, alive. It looked as if it had been picked that morning. Elara touched one petal with her fingertip. It was cool, firm, and slightly waxy, like the skin of an apple. forever roses
Elara had never believed in things that claimed to last forever. Then it was gone
"You have to understand," Nona continued, "the forever rose isn't just a flower. It's a key. Your grandfather spent his whole life chasing the myth of a garden where nothing fades. And he found it. But the garden doesn't let you leave. Not entirely. He sent me that rose as a promise—that he was still there, still alive. And every year, on our anniversary, I pricked my finger on its thorn and I saw him. For just a second. I saw where he was." It was the color of old blood—a deep, almost black crimson
"What was that?" she whispered.