Rose looked back at her flowers, then up at her husband. Her red hair, though now threaded with silver at the temples, still glowed with its own internal light. She wasn't just a redhead or a gardener named Rose; she was a woman who had grown into her own skin, blooming in her own time, more vibrant and certain than she had ever been in her youth.
He walked down the wooden steps and handed her a glass. "Thinking about the past again?" redhead rose mature
If you’d like to see this story go in a different direction, tell me: Rose looked back at her flowers, then up at her husband
"I think," Rose said, her voice soft but sure, "that the best blooms always come a little later in the season." Rose looked back at her flowers