Ryan’s rose pot wasn’t just decoration—it was memory. Inside the soil were ashes of his late mother, Rose, lovingly mixed with care. Every May, crimson roses bloomed, whispering her presence back into his world. He treated it like sacred ground, a small patch of peace.
He kept the plant on his windowsill, watering it carefully, checking its soil just as his mom taught him. His cat, Salem, often curled up beside it. The rose plant was thriving—until a call from his estranged father disrupted everything.
Ryan hadn’t spoken much to his father since his mom died. They’d drifted apart after Larry, his father, avoided her final moments. So when he called claiming to be sick and needing help, Ryan felt torn—but agreed to let him stay for a few days.
Larry showed up, energetic and talkative, not looking sick at all. He went grocery shopping, took walks, even caught sunsets at the beach. Ryan quickly realized the illness was a lie—a manipulation. When confronted, Larry admitted it: he just wanted to spend time with his son… but hadn’t known how to ask.
And just as Ryan began questioning if healing could begin, something shattered—literally.