【A（white及Rose）】In the quiet corners of a small village, where time seemed to move slower and the air carried the scent of earth and memory, there stood an old garden. It was not grand or well-kept, but it held a certain charm that drew people in, especially those who had once known its owner.
The garden belonged to an elderly woman named Clara. She had lived there for most of her life, tending to the plants with a care that only someone who truly understood them could show. Among the many flowers she grew, the white rose was her favorite. It bloomed only once a year, on the day of her birthday, and every year, it stood tall and proud, untouched by the harshness of the world.
Many people in the village spoke of the rose as if it were magical. Some said it brought good luck, others claimed it had the power to heal. But Clara never believed in such things. To her, the rose was simply a symbol of something deeper—a reminder of a love that had long since faded, yet still lingered in her heart.
She had once been young, full of dreams and hope. Back then, she had met a man who had walked into her life like a whisper in the wind. He was kind, gentle, and always smiled. They spent many afternoons in the garden, talking about everything and nothing at all. He would often bring her a single white rose, saying it was the only one that could match her beauty.
But time, as it always does, moved forward. The man left, taking with him a piece of her soul. The garden remained, but the joy in it began to fade. The white rose continued to bloom each year, as if waiting for something that would never come.
Years passed, and Clara grew older. The village changed, new faces came and went, but the garden stayed the same. People would sometimes stop by, curious about the rose and the woman who guarded it. Some asked why she kept it, why she didn’t let it go. She would smile softly and say, “It’s not just a flower. It’s a memory.”
One spring morning, as the sun broke through the clouds, the white rose bloomed again. This time, however, there was a visitor standing before it—a young girl, no more than ten years old, holding a small notebook in her hands. She had heard stories about the rose and the woman who loved it, and she wanted to see it for herself.
Clara watched from the window, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and warmth. The girl knelt beside the rose, touching its petals with gentle fingers. For a moment, time seemed to pause, and in that silence, something shifted.
From that day on, the garden was no longer empty. The girl returned often, bringing with her laughter and curiosity. She would sit with Clara, listening to her stories, learning about the past, and slowly, the garden began to feel alive again.
The white rose still bloomed each year, but now, it was not just a symbol of loss—it had become a bridge between memories and the future. And in that quiet corner of the world, a simple flower continued to remind everyone who passed by that even in the darkest of times, there is always the possibility of new beginnings.
