I was walking along the lake on a quiet afternoon when my attention was drawn to something out of place: a single red rose resting near the water, a small folded note tied to its stem. The stillness of the scene made the discovery feel deliberate, almost ceremonial, and curiosity led me closer.
I unfolded the note slowly and read the words written there. It was a simple request, asking a passerby to throw the rose into the lake. The writer explained that her late husband’s ashes were scattered there, but she could no longer reach the lakeside in her wheelchair. The gates were locked, and she had to leave that evening.
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