Chapter 3 The Yellow Rose
1232 Words
Eleanor wasn’t sure why her feet carried her toward Willow Bloom Floral. The morning had started with coffee and an unexpected confrontation, and the last thing she thought she needed was flowers. And yet, something in her tugged gently—memory, maybe. Or longing. Or the ache of seeing her past come to life in ways she wasn’t prepared for.
The florist shop sat tucked between the bookstore and the old tailor shop, just as it always had. Its windows were framed with soft ivy, the glass clouded slightly from years of humidity and floral breath. Sunshine spilled across the wooden sign above the door:
WILLOW BLOOM FLORAL
Est. 1974
Her heart dipped.
Her mother used to bring her here every spring, the two of them weaving through rows of blossoms until they found the perfect one.
A yellow rose. Always a yellow rose.
“Grace lives where hearts stay open,” her mother would say, tucking the stem gently into Eleanor’s hand. “And a yellow rose is a promise you’re still growing.”
Even two decades later, the memory still warmed and stung in equal measure.
The door opened just as Eleanor reached for it, and an older woman stepped out—silver hair swept into a loose bun, apron decorated with small flecks of leaves and petals. Her eyes widened behind her glasses.
“Eleanor Hayes?”
Eleanor blinked. “Mrs. Callahan?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” the florist breathed, pressing a hand to her chest. “My goodness. Look at you.”
Before Eleanor could respond, Mrs. Callahan pulled her into a soft, motherly embrace that carried every scent the shop held—lavender, rose water, and fresh greenery.
Eleanor closed her eyes for a moment, letting the familiar warmth wash over her. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered.
Mrs. Callahan stepped back and cupped her cheek, her eyes full of something gentle and knowing. “Your mama would be thrilled to see you home.”
Eleanor’s breath hitched. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be here.”
“No one ever is,” the florist said with a soft smile. “But this town has a way of holding you together even when you feel like you’re falling apart.”
Eleanor swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Before she could reply, Mrs. Callahan opened the door wider. “Come inside, dear.
Let me show you something.”
She followed her in, and the familiar scent enveloped her—earthy, floral, warm. Buckets of blooms lined the walls, splashes of color filling every corner like a living painting. Soft music played from an old radio in the back.
Eleanor stopped when she saw the single yellow rose placed in a slender glass vase on the central table, basking in a beam of morning light.
Her heart trembled.
Mrs. Callahan noticed and nodded knowingly. “That one came in this morning. Unusually perfect. Sometimes flowers arrive when they’re meant to, not when we expect them.”
Eleanor reached out and touched a petal with trembling fingers. “It’s beautiful.”
“So were you,” the florist said softly. “Once upon a time.”
Eleanor let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect this place to feel so… alive.”
Mrs. Callahan set a hand gently on Eleanor’s arm. “Healing starts in small ways. Even with something as simple as a flower.”
Before Eleanor could answer, the bell over the door chimed again.
She turned—and froze.
Gabriel stood in the doorway.
He looked different than the boy she remembered. Taller. Shoulders broader. Eyes deeper, darkened by years and experience she hadn’t been there to witness. But beneath all that change, the gaze that fell on her—soft, careful, almost wounded—felt exactly the same.
“Ellie,” he breathed.
Her pulse jumped.
Mrs. Callahan touched Eleanor’s arm once more, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll give you two a moment.” And just like that, she slipped quietly into the back room, leaving Eleanor standing amid blossoms and old memories.
Gabriel stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He took a moment before speaking, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to stand here. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said gently.
“I didn’t know I’d be here either,” she replied, trying to steady her breathing.
He looked at her—really looked—and Eleanor felt the years between them stretch and contract all at once.
“I saw you leave the café earlier,” Gabriel said. “I didn’t want things to end… like that.”
Her eyes flickered. “You mean with Joshua?”
He exhaled slowly. “I mean with you.”
Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the edge of the table. “Gabriel, it’s been a long morning.”
“I know,” he murmured. “And I’m not here to make it harder.”
Then why was he here?
Why did seeing him feel like a storm breaking open inside her?
Gabriel walked closer, stopping on the other side of the table, his eyes drawn to the yellow rose. “Your mom used to buy those for you,” he said softly.
Eleanor flinched. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
Her heart clenched so sharply she had to look away. She couldn’t hold the weight of nostalgia pressing into her chest—not when she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Eleanor,” Gabriel said, voice low and rough, “I’m not trying to drag the past into your hands. I just want you to know that I didn’t come back to pretend nothing happened.”
She whispered, “Then why did you come back?”
He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “Because I got tired of running from the things that shaped me… and the person I hurt the most.”
The air thickened between them.
Eleanor forced herself to breathe. “I don’t know what you expect from me.”
“Nothing,” Gabriel said quietly. “I expect nothing. I just… need you to know I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Her eyes burned, and she blinked hard. “Gabriel—”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “I’m asking for the chance to stand in the same town as you without pretending you don’t matter.”
Eleanor felt her walls tremble.
Her voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know what to do with this. With you. With all of it.”
Gabriel’s expression softened. “You don’t have to do anything. Not today. Not tomorrow. Just… don’t shut me out.”
The yellow rose between them glowed in the sunlit beam, its petals warm and bright—a quiet symbol of something she didn’t yet know how to name.
“You’re different,” she whispered.
“So are you,” he replied. “Maybe that’s why this time… it could be something new.”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
But she didn’t step away either.
For a long moment, they simply stood there—two people with bruised histories and uncertain futures—held together by a single, trembling thread.
And the yellow rose, soft and steady, bore witness.
- Writer
