Every Saturday at exactly 9 AM, Mr. Anderson entered the small flower shop on 5th Street. A friendly 82-year-old man with a perfectly pressed suit and a navy blue tie. For 47 years, he had bought the same bouquet: twelve red roses.
“For my Elizabeth,” he would always say with a smile.
We all in the shop knew his story. Elizabeth, his wife, had passed away three years ago. Still, he came, every week, as if she was waiting for him at home.
Last Saturday was different. Mr. Anderson came at 8:30 AM, half an hour earlier than usual. His hands trembled as he handed me an envelope.
“Marie,” he said in a weak voice, “open this letter tomorrow.”
He bought his twelve roses and left. It was the last time I saw him.
The next day, I opened the envelope with trembling hands. Inside were a key, an address, and a letter:
“Dear Marie, if you’re reading this, I’m with my Elizabeth. In our house, 127 Maple Street, there’s an old safe in the basement. Inside is something that belongs to you. Forty-seven years ago, a young woman entered my antique shop. She sold me an antique brooch to support her sick mother. That woman was your grandmother. The brooch is a family heirloom that had been passed down through generations. It’s time for it to return home.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. My grandmother had often told me about this brooch that she had to sell with a heavy heart.
That afternoon, I went to Mr. Anderson’s house. In the basement safe, I found not only the brooch but also a photo album. The last entry was dated yesterday: a picture of Mr. Anderson and Elizabeth on their wedding day, with a note: “Together again, forever.”
The local newspaper reported that Mr. Anderson had passed away peacefully in his sleep, clutching a single red rose.
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