For weeks, a single red rose appeared on Margaret’s doorstep each morning — no note, no explanation, just the flower’s silent allure. But when the roses suddenly stopped and a cryptic message appeared, her quiet life turned into a mystery she couldn’t ignore.

For weeks, a single rose appeared on my doormat every morning, bringing equal parts delight and unease. At first, I told myself it was sweet, even romantic.

It had been years since anyone made me feel special, and these roses stirred something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Nine years ago, my marriage ended. My husband left after an affair, and though he tried to come back later, I couldn’t take him back.

I had rebuilt my life, one quiet, deliberate step at a time. Knitting, volunteering at the soup kitchen, and working at the library gave my days a calm rhythm.

My grown children, busy with their own lives, visited when they could. My friends, especially Patricia, were like family. Life was peaceful. Predictable.

Now, each morning, when I opened my front door, there it was. A single, perfect red rose. No note. No explanation. Just the flower, lying neatly on the doormat.

A single rose | Source: Midjourney

At first, I smiled when I saw it. Who wouldn’t? “Maybe someone has a crush on you,” Patricia teased when I mentioned it to her.

But as the days passed, the charm faded. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Why didn’t they leave a card? Why wouldn’t they show themselves?

By the third week, the roses weren’t romantic anymore. They felt… wrong. I started checking the windows more often, glancing over my shoulder when I went outside.

One morning, I found something different. Beneath the rose was a note. The words were written in small, shaky handwriting:

“You’re not as alone as you think.”

My breath caught, and my hands shook as I held the paper. What did that mean? Was it a message of comfort? Or a warning?

I shoved the note into my pocket and stepped back inside, locking the door behind me. All day, I couldn’t focus. At the library, I kept rereading the note in my mind. Patricia noticed my distraction during our shift at the soup kitchen that evening.

“You’re jumpy,” she said, handing me a ladle. “Something on your mind?”

I hesitated but then told her about the note. “Patricia, it’s starting to scare me. What if someone’s been watching me?”

Patricia’s expression hardened. “That’s not normal, dear. You need to call someone. The police, maybe?”

“Oh, I don’t know if it’s serious enough for that,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

Patricia put her hands on her hips. “Nonsense. You’re not going through this alone.”

The next morning, for the first time in weeks, my doorstep was empty. No rose. Relief swept over me, but it was short-lived. That afternoon, as I sat by the window knitting, I noticed a car parked across the street.

It wasn’t anyone I recognized. A man sat inside, holding a newspaper. He wasn’t reading it, though. He kept glancing at my house.

When Patricia called that evening, I told her about the car.

“Do not ignore this,” she said, her voice firm. “You’re coming to my house tonight. We’ll figure this out together.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to bother you —”

“You’re not bothering me. You’re packing a bag, and you’re coming over. Now.”

The next morning, we heard a knock at the door.

Patricia froze, then told me to stay put. She peeked through the curtain by the door and turned back to me, her face serious.

“It’s him,” she whispered. “The man from the car.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “What does he want?”

Patricia straightened her shoulders and called through the door, her voice sharp. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

The man’s reply was muffled but clear enough. “Please. I just need to talk to her.”

“To me?” I said, stepping closer to the door. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of what was happening.

What could he possibly want?

Patricia glanced at me, then back at the door. “Talk about what? And why are you skulking around like this?”

“I — I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to scare her. I’m… I knew her a long time ago.”

Something about his voice triggered a faint memory, but I couldn’t place it.

“You knew her?” Patricia shot back. “Who are you really, and what’s with the roses?”

The man hesitated, then said, “Please, I’ll explain everything. Just let me talk to her.”

Patricia turned to me, her expression skeptical. “Do you know anyone named William?”

I racked my brain. The name stirred something faint, but the memory was blurry. “I don’t know,” I said softly.

Patricia unlatched the chain but left the door cracked. “Start talking, right here. No funny business.”

William leaned toward the opening. He wasn’t much taller than Patricia, with a lined face and thin-rimmed glasses. His voice was nervous but steady. “It’s me, William. We went to high school together.”

I blinked, staring at him through the gap in the door. “High school?”

He nodded quickly. “You probably don’t remember me. I was shy back then. But I never forgot you.”

I shook my head, confused. “I don’t —”

“Do you remember prom?” he interrupted, his voice softening. “I gave you a rose. Just one. You said it was your favorite flower.”

The memory hit me like a wave. A shy boy, fumbling with a single red rose at the edge of the gym. I had thanked him, flattered but distracted, my thoughts on someone else. That boy had been William.

A boy giving a girl a rose | Source: Midjourney

I stared at him now, struggling to connect the image of that teenager with the man on Patricia’s porch.

“I saw you at the library a few weeks ago,” William continued. “You were helping someone at the desk. I recognized you right away, but I didn’t know if you’d remember me. I thought…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. “I thought maybe the roses would remind you of me.”

I stepped closer to the door. “You could have just said something, William. Why didn’t you?”

He sighed. “Because I didn’t know how you’d react. It’s been decades. And when I saw you… you looked so happy. So strong. I wasn’t sure if there was still room in your life for someone like me.”

Patricia opened the door wider but kept herself between us, her protective stance firm. “Come inside. But I’m not going anywhere, so don’t try anything.”

William nodded gratefully and stepped in. He looked at me nervously, twisting his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I scared you. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?” I asked, sitting at the kitchen table. My voice was calmer now, but I still felt a knot of unease.

“To see you again,” he said simply. “You were always… someone I looked up to. Back then, you were kind to me when no one else was. I never forgot that.”

I studied his face, the sincerity in his eyes. “It’s been so many years. What made you want to reconnect now?”

William shifted in his seat. “I’ve been drifting for a long time. Different jobs, different cities. But nothing ever felt right. A few months ago, I decided to come back here—to where I grew up. And when I saw you again… I thought maybe it was a sign. Like maybe I had a second chance to do something I didn’t have the courage to do back then.”

“You mean… talk to me?” I asked softly.

He smiled faintly. “Yes. But even now, I still wasn’t brave enough to just walk up to you. The roses were my way of… testing the waters, I guess. To see if you’d remember me.”