Sir William's White Rose

The rain stopped in the late afternoon and the Yorkshire sky turned a clear gray-blue. Inspector Weiss stood on the stone street and took one last look at the small flower shop called "Anna's Garden". In the display window, white roses glowed with the luster of porcelain in the fading skylight, like many silent eyes. He turned and left, and the sound of his cane tapping the ground echoed on the wet street, gradually getting farther and farther away, and finally blending into the tranquility of dusk. She tore off the petals one by one and let them fall on the oak counter like a small, private snow. A petal, for the self who never grew up. One petal, for those butterflies that finally fly away. A petal, for all those who have been silent and finally raised their voices. Pick up the silver rose ring and put it back on your finger. Oxidation makes the silver dull, but the ruby ​​still shines faintly in the darkness, like eyes that can never be closed, like a past that can never be forgotten. Tomorrow, the sun will rise as usual. White roses will bloom as usual. People will come and buy flowers as usual - for love, for apology, for farewell, for all those never-ending human emotions. And she will be here as usual. In this small garden, bought in a lifetime, she continues to sell her white roses, continues to make her tea, and continues to tell a long, long story to the travelers who accidentally intrude on rainy days. In the story, there is crime and punishment, love and hate, butterflies and specimens, silence and sounds, how a woman survives harm, how she loves in hatred, and how she continues to live after revenge - with all the complex memories that cannot be easily defined.