A single red rose rested on the tombstone, long stemmed, dethorned. He placed one there every month, on the 28th. She liked that date, it was their day.
He'd never expected to find anyone to love, and he'd spent every day expecting her to wise up and leave him. But by the end, she'd convinced him that she truly loved him, and had almost convinced him he deserved her, that he deserved her love. But he still didn't quite believe it.
But today, as she came back to him, and held the rose up? Now he may well believe it.
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