Every Thursday at 3 p.m., he’d arrive like clockwork. Same motorized cart, same worn yellow cap, and always—without fail—a fresh bouquet of red roses in the basket. He’d pass by the deli, head straight to the floral section, and carefully pick out the fullest bunch. Then he’d close his eyes for a moment and breathe in their scent, as if it still held something sacred.
One afternoon, my coworker Kira asked, “Special occasion today?”
He smiled kindly. “Not today. Just Thursday.”
That answer stayed with me. The next week, I found myself curious. I watched as he left with his groceries and followed him at a distance. He moved slowly, loading bags into an old beige sedan. With gentle care, he wiped the dashboard, then opened the passenger door.
That’s when I saw her.
She sat poised in the passenger seat, her gray hair tied back with a ribbon, her gaze distant yet calm. He handed her the roses in silence.
She looked at them, then softly asked, “Are these from the man who used to bring me flowers?”
He paused for just a moment before replying, “Yes, sweetheart. Every Thursday.”
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