Title: The Kiss of the Rose
Beginning: George is softly nodding in the comfortable chair in front of his large window as Mary, his nurse, enters his room. She is holding a package, wrapped in faded brown paper. After Mary wakes up George, she hands him the package and an accompanying letter. In the letter, George reads that Bea, an old friend of his has passed away. Inside the package is her most prized possession: her picture book.
Middle: As George motions Mary to sit down beside him, he tells her about Bea's and his history. Picture by picture, day by day, George takes Mary on a journey across the decades. From George's childhood all the way to the present day. In the pictures, the story of a childhood friendship slowly makes way for the story of young love. But then the two protagonists grow apart, Bea decides to explore the world, while George decided to stay behind in his hometown. Letters are sent between them, but the love slowly fades. As George finds a wife, the contact between him and Bea slowly but surely stops. For more than thirty years, George hears nothing from Bea, but the pictures and mementos in the book show that she never forgot him.
End: The last page of the book does not hold a photograph. Instead, a dried rose, wrapped with a small bow, is pressed between the pages. Seeing the token of his love he gave Bea so long ago, George weeps, and closes the book with a sigh. After Mary once more leaves the room, George falls asleep in his chair.
---
Bonus:
"And that is it. This is the last letter I sent her before we lost contact. Mary. have you ever realized you loved someone, when that someone slipped beyond your reach a long time ago?"
"Not that I can say, no. To be honest, I don't often meet new people, nor do I have the time to travel."
"That's a pity, Promise me you'll make time to see the world. To explore its many wonders, see all the distant lands and people. If you have learned anything from Bea's book, let it be that lesson. I, unfortunately, only realized it when it was already too late."
George lets out a sigh, and falls silent. Mary can see from lines on his face, the wrinkles that are tightening and relaxing besides his eyes, that George is lost in thought again. After a few minutes of leaving him alone with his memories, Mary coughs softly.
With a jerk, George wakes up from his contemplation.
"Ah yes, sorry, sorry. Where were we? Right, the final pages. Let's find out what Bea has been up to all these years!"
While George grips the thick, waxy paper with his trembling fingers, Mary once more realizes how frail he actually looks. If she didn't know better, if George hadn't always been the example of good health, she would swear she was looking at the hands of a skeleton. The wrinkled white skin fell so loosely around his bony fingers that, save for the occasional vein, they resembled sacks of bones. And as George fumbled with those final pages, she could swear she discerned a tremor or two fleeing through his hands. Were these merely the emotions of his past, taking their toll, or was it something different?
"Ah, there we are! Damned thing was stuck, I swear you. Now, let's continue with our story. But... what... is this?"
Mary watches as those frail fingers move over the last page of Bea's book. On that last page, that very last entry of that wonderful adventure, there was not a picture. Instead, a dried rose was carefully pressed on the page, still as red as if it was still fresh. A small, pink ribbon was wrapped around its thornless stem.
His hands shaking violently now, George clutches the rose between his hands, as gingerly as possible without dropping it. Mary can't help but shed a tear as the old man lifts the rose up to his nose, as if he could still smell it after all those years. The old man's face twists and contorts as he fights back his emotions, the thick wrinkles on his brow coiling like snakes over the parchment-like skin.
"This... I... This rose. I gave her this rose before she went away. I... I followed her onto the runway, I ran after her as she walked towards her plane. 'Bea', I told her, 'I want you to hold on to this. Wherever you go. Keep it near you, as a token of my... my ever-last... lasting love for you'. And I hugged and kissed her then, as if I never would see her again. As if I knew, that this would be the e... the end for us."
"George..."
"Oh, and kept it she did. All those years, all those travels, and she kept it with her! Even when... when we broke up she took it with her! Oh, if only I c... could see her one last time, could talk to her. If only I could turn back the time."
As George broke out into tears, Mary did not dare disturb him. However, maybe too small and finely written for George's old eyes to see, there was a note written on the page. And so she waited, as minutes went by, until George overcame his emotion. Then, finally, as the flood of tears running over the old man's cheeks started to subside, she softly spoke to him:
"George, I think there is something written on the page."
"Where? I cannot see it, why are these blasted eyes failing me now? Here, could you, could you read it to me?"
Even though trembling under the weight of the book, George lifts it off the table and presses it firmly into Mary's hands.
"Let's see. The writing is quite faint, but it is most definitely there. It's just a bit hard to make out on this faded paper."
My dearest George,
Where has the time gone? Now, as I look upon these pictures for the last time, I realize just how old I have grown. What happened to those small children, playing in the grass during those long, warm summers. I wonder, has time been such a harsh mistress to you too? Do you still have that roguish grin, and that sparkle in you eyes?
I have wanted to write to you so very often. I can't count the times that I started to write a letter, only to throw it away again. I was afraid George, afraid that you did not want to see the woman who left you, who broke your heart, now you finally found someone to share your life with.
And now I am too late. I am old George, I have lived a long, long live. But now my body doesn't want to go on anymore. I have seen so many things, had so many wondrous adventures, which are portrayed here in this book. But the one thing that I wanted to see the most, is you.
While I am writing this I realize that, when you read this, I won't be around anymore. This long, long summer is finally coming to an end. Before my time is up, I wanted you to have this book, to see our time together once again. And I wanted you to read these words. Because I want you to know that you were always in my heart, George. Wherever I went, you were there with me, just like you said. I never loved someone as much as I loved you.
Your Bea
---
Before she closes the door, Mary takes one last, long look at George. She can't help but feel pity for the old man. After she was done reading the book to him, he fell apart. And Mary held him, comforted him, while the old man was sobbing uncontrollably. Now, he was sitting in his old chair once again, the one facing the window. Even though it was dark outside, Mary knew that this didn't matter. For she could see the little lines around his eyes moving, ever so slowly, as George was re-living his past. His bony hands were folded over his chest, the tremors no longer visible. And there, placed gently between his fingers, lay the dried rose.
Without making a sound, Mary closed the door to his room, and never came back.
