Gemotions

He found them on the doorstep, a riot of colour against the dull grey of the pavement. Roses, a deep, blood-red that mirrored the ache in his chest. No name, no message. Just the flowers. He carried them inside, the scent filling the stale air of the apartment. He placed them on the coffee table, right where she used to set her knitting. His vision blurred, and he sank onto the sofa, the silence amplifying the weight in his chest. He imagined her, meticulously arranging them in a vase, her brow furrowed in concentration. The thought nearly broke him.