The Rose at Noon

The garden wasn’t left to grow wild, not here. Beds were kept in order, paths cleared, stems cut back before they could tangle into each other. Roses were watched closely — not for beauty, but for timing. Too early and they wouldn’t hold. Too late and they’d fall apart the moment they were touched.

“Now,” she said, handing over the shears. He hesitated just long enough to make it obvious. “You’ll miss it,” she added.

The cut was clean, just below the node. The bloom held its shape, caught in that narrow window they had both been looking for.

It didn’t sit waiting after. It was taken, worked with, fixed into place before it could shift into anything else. The form decided at the moment of the cut, and kept that way.