She was a young girl who loved roses. She would spend hours in her garden, tending to the delicate flowers, admiring their beauty and fragrance. She dreamed of becoming a florist someday, and sharing her passion with others.
There was an old man who lived alone in a small apartment. He had no family or friends, and rarely left his home. He felt lonely and bitter, and had given up on life.
One day, he saw her selling roses on the street corner. She had a bright smile and a cheerful voice, and offered him a rose for a small price. He declined, but she insisted.
"Please, sir, take one. It will make you happy. Roses are good for the soul."
He reluctantly accepted, and gave her a coin. She thanked him, and handed him a red rose.
He took it home, and placed it in a vase on his windowsill. He looked at it, and felt nothing.
The next day, he saw her again. She greeted him warmly, and offered him another rose.
"Please, sir, take one more. It will make you happier. Roses are good for the heart."
He refused, but she persisted.
"Please, sir, take one more. It will make me happy. Roses are good for the world."
He gave in, and gave her another coin. She thanked him, and handed him a yellow rose.
He took it home, and placed it next to the red one. He looked at them, and felt a slight curiosity.
The day after that, he saw her once more. She smiled at him, and offered him yet another rose.
"Please, sir, take one last one. It will make you happiest. Roses are good for everything."
He shook his head, but she pleaded.
"Please, sir, take one last one. It will make me happiest. Roses are good for you."
He sighed, and gave her a final coin. She thanked him, and handed him a white rose.
He took it home, and placed it with the other two. He looked at them, and felt a faint warmth.
The next day, he went out to see her again. He wanted to buy more roses from her, and maybe talk to her a little. He wanted to know more about her life, and tell her about his own. He wanted to thank her for bringing some color into his gray world.
But she was not there.
He asked around, and learned that she had been hit by a car the previous night. She had died on the spot.
He felt a surge of grief and regret. He wished he had been kinder to her, and appreciated her more. He wished he had told her how much her roses meant to him.
He went back to his apartment, and cried over the roses on his windowsill. They were wilting and fading away.
Except for the white one.
It was still fresh and beautiful.
It was the last rose she had given him.
It was the last rose she had ever given anyone.
It was the last rose in the world.
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