Flowers Seen Through the Mist

I was sixty-two the year I died. That afternoon, the sun shone brightly. The sound of my children and grandchildren weeping reached my ears, and I felt reluctant to leave them. A gentle breeze passed through, stirring the sheer curtains beside my bed. A clear bell rang outside the door. The scent of flowers drifted in, familiar yet strange, as though I had smelled it many years ago. I looked at the shadow outside the door, smiled, and slowly closed my eyes. The fragrance of flowers settled on my face, never to be scattered by the wind again.