ROSES 🌹 AND GUNS

First ring. Second ring. Third ring. Voicemail. I frowned at the phone screen as if staring hard enough would make it change its mind. I redialed. First ring. Second ring. Straight to voicemail. My chest tightened. No. No, no, no. He couldn’t be ignoring me. Not today. Not after last night. Just yesterday he had held my hands across the tiny restaurant table, his thumb brushing my knuckles, eyes soft and full of promise. “Forever, Seraphim,” he had whispered. Forever. My fingers trembled as I reached for the envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. I hadn’t wanted to open it. I already knew. My body knew. My heart knew. Still, I unfolded the paper. Seraphim, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t look for me. Take care of yourself… and the baby. That was it. No explanation. No fight. No goodbye. Just four lines that split my world in half. I read it again, hoping hidden ink would appear. Some joke. Some explanation. Some proof this was temporary. Nothing. I pressed a hand to my stomach. “I told him,” I whispered to the empty room. “He smiled. He said he was ready.” Was he pretending? Had I imagined the joy in his eyes? If he didn’t want to be a father, he could have told me to my face. I would have screamed. I would have cried. But I would have respected the honesty. Not this. Not disappearing like smoke. My knees gave way and I slid to the floor, the letter crumpling in my fist. I don’t know how long I stayed there. present “Mommy?” The small voice pulled me from the dark like a lifeline. I opened my eyes. The ceiling above me. The pale morning light. The present. I sat up quickly, pressing my palms to my cheeks. “I promised myself,” I muttered under my breath. “Not again.” But memory doesn’t ask for permission. “Mommy!” Elsa’s voice came again, louder now. “I’m coming!” I stood, straightened my shirt, and walked into her room. She was sitting up in bed, curls wild around her face, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it held state secrets. “You were dreaming again,” she said seriously. I blinked. “Was I?” “You make that face.” “What face?” She scrunched her brows and pouted dramatically. I laughed despite myself. “Do I look that scary?” “Only a little,” she giggled. I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms. She fit perfectly against me, warm and real and mine. “You know what today is?” she whispered. “Hmm?” “Show-and-tell day! I’m taking Mr. Whiskers.” “The rabbit who’s missing one ear?” “He fought a dragon,” she defended. “Ah. Of course. Very brave.” She grinned proudly. Moments like this grounded me. No matter what the past had taken, it hadn’t taken her. We moved through our morning rhythm: Toothpaste on tiny brushes. Braiding her curls while she told me stories that changed halfway through. Burnt toast because I forgot to flip it. Her dramatic sigh when I insisted she wear her sweater. “You own the clinic,” she reminded me for the hundredth time as we walked. “So technically I work for you.” “Is that so?” “Yes. So you can’t give me injections.” “I absolutely can.” She gasped. “Abuse of power.” I shook my head, smiling. The school gates came into view. And then I stopped. Black. That was the first thing I noticed. Black SUVs lined the curb, engines low and steady. Windows tinted so dark they looked like mirrors. Men in tailored suits stood near each vehicle. Not ordinary suits. Perfectly fitted. Crisp. Immaculate. Earpieces curved discreetly around their ears. They weren’t loud. They weren’t aggressive. But they were… intentional. Every movement measured. Every glance sharp. Elsa squeezed my hand. “Mommy… is there a movie star here?” “I don’t think so,” I murmured. One of the rear doors opened. A man stepped out first. Tall. Broad shoulders. Expression unreadable. He scanned the surroundings once before stepping aside. Then a little boy climbed out. Neatly dressed. Hair combed with careful precision. Shoes polished. He looked about Elsa’s age. Two suited men fell into step beside him, one slightly ahead, one slightly behind. Shielding. Escorting. The boy didn’t look frightened. He looked… accustomed. Like this was normal. Like arriving at school inside a moving fortress was just another Tuesday. Elsa leaned closer to me. “That’s so cool.” I couldn’t help it — I stared. All this… for one child? The boy glanced around, wide-eyed but composed, and for a brief second his gaze met mine. There was something in that look. Not fear. Not arrogance. Something sharper. Something observant. Then he smiled faintly. A small, almost secret smile. And just like that, the convoy began dispersing. Engines revved softly. Doors shut. Vehicles rolled away one by one, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of exhaust and unanswered questions. The school gates returned to normal. Children laughing. Parents chatting. Teachers waving. As if nothing unusual had just happened. Elsa tugged my hand. “Mommy, we’re going to be late.” I blinked. “Yes. Right.” I walked her inside, but as the gates closed behind us, I found myself glancing once more toward the empty road. The black cars were gone. But the stillness they left behind wasn’t.