The story of the Rose Burial is long, but I have never actually done it.
There were many people in the organization, but even more of them died. The roses could no longer fall upon the graves of the dead, carrying the memories of the living.
This isn't just my regret. It's everyone's.
Those who buried the roses once hoped for freedom, too.
P.S.
The blurb is in first person, but the story is in third person.
An early writing exercise, so the writing is rather immature.
Theme: Live well.
