Shadow of a Rose

The wind blew harshly through the old brick alleyways, throwing the thick, cold snow in every direction. The huge grey clouds, barely visible between the towering walls of the buildings, blotted out the life-giving sun, replacing it with the icy breath of Winter. The heavily falling snow built up in mountains against the sides of the buildings, covering the ground.

In a corner, against the walls of the city, the snow drift was disturbed. In the dark, almost invisible through the storm just a moment ago, a man huddled beneath his skin of frosty newspapers. His breath came out in ragged gasps as he pulled the papers further up to his chin. He was freezing; the man wore only a thin brown windbreaker. His old, dirty jeans were torn through in many places from overuse and hard times. A worn cap, stuffed with newspaper, was settled on his pale, bald head. The cold, wet weather had crystallized his long grey beard, a spiderweb of prisms. Green eyes, a sharp contrast to the infinity of blowing white all around, stared through at the wall as if at nothing at all and in his pale, thin hand, he grasped the shadow of a rose.

A white rose, an old rose. Its long dead petals curled in towards the center, as if holding itself together after all the years. The rose no longer gave off its sweet scent; it had long been blotted out with the garbage and death all around. The rose wilted to the side, bent over on itself on its old brown stem. The only element of the rose that still held true was the painful tear of the sharp thorns as they dug deeper into the man's hand. The man, numb to this pain, stared ahead.

All that was left were the memories. The memories of a lost love, memories that had clouded his mind all these years. His feeble attempts to forget had been all in vain, the memories were too strong, his love too deep.

The green eyes stared ahead and the snow fell heavier all around the man, but this time, he did not shake it off; the last mist of life had left his lungs. A gust of harsh wind swept through the alley, the rose petals, far too weak now, were torn away and flew down to the ground, scattering over the new-fallen snow. All that was left was a short dead stem, the thorns deep in the man's cold palm.