The Last Mile In the Rain
He picked the rose at dusk, just as the sky was beginning to turn deep shades of crimson and orange. Dark clouds roamed, grey and threatening inside, their edges tinged with purple and red. It looked as if the coming night would bring rain, but he doubted it.
The rose had been growing outside his house, on a vine that climbed up a trellis, winding in and out of the crisscrossed holes. He had planted it the year before, during the spring, back when his life had been happy. When he had stood before the empty trellis, with the tiny rosebush at his feet, and her by…
