Until The Last Petal Falls

The Day Before

The morning before birthday dawned gray and quiet.

I’d spent the past few days familiarizing myself with the house, slowly working up the courage to go back to the attic. But every time I climbed the stairs and reached for the key, something stopped me—a weight in my chest, a whisper in my mind urging me to wait.

Today, though, that weight felt heavier.

I stood at the window in the sitting room, staring out at the garden as the rain tapped softly against the glass. The rose bushes looked wild, their thorny branches curling toward the house as if trying to reach me.

“Happy almost-birthday,” I muttered to myself, sipping my coffee.

I’d planned to spend the day sorting through the study, a room I’d intentionally avoided until now. It had been my grandmother’s sanctuary, filled with old books and papers that smelled faintly of lavender and ink.

When I stepped inside, the air felt different—heavier, warmer. The walls were lined with shelves that reached the ceiling, every inch packed with books whose spines were faded from years of sunlight. On the desk sat a leather-bound journal, its corners worn and frayed.

I picked it up, running my fingers over the cover. It felt oddly warm, like it had been sitting in the sun.

Opening it, I saw my grandmother’s neat, slanted handwriting.

To my dearest Seraphina, the first page read. If you’re reading this, it means you’ve come back. I’m sorry for the burden I’ve left you, but it’s yours to carry now. Our family’s story is woven into the fabric of this house, and you must decide how it ends.

My heart sank as I flipped through the pages. They were filled with cryptic notes and sketches of roses, their petals shaded in delicate detail. Phrases like “the curse deepens with time” and “the protector awaits” were scrawled in the margins.

One entry caught my eye, dated exactly twenty-four years before today.

“She’ll come of age, as they all do. When the rose blooms for her, the choice will be hers to make. I only hope she’s strong enough.”

I slammed the journal shut, my pulse racing. The words felt like they were written for me, a message from the past meant to guide—or warn—me.

I spent the rest of the day trying to shake the unease, busying myself with cleaning and rearranging the house. But no matter what I did, the journal’s words echoed in my mind.

When night fell, I found myself standing at the base of the attic stairs once again. My birthday was only hours away, and the pull to the rose felt stronger than ever.

I climbed the steps slowly, the wood creaking beneath my feet. The key was still in the lock, its tarnished surface glinting faintly in the dim light.

This time, I turned it without hesitation.

The attic was just as I’d left it—dusty and cluttered, the air thick with the scent of roses. But tonight, the glow from the case was brighter, more intense.

The rose looked... alive.

Its petals shimmered like they were kissed by dew, and the faintest pulse of light radiated from its center. I stared at it, my breath hitching as the pull became almost unbearable.

I reached out, my fingers hovering just above the glass case. But before I could touch it, a sharp knock sounded from downstairs.

I froze, my heart racing.

The knock came again, louder this time.

I backed away from the case, closing the attic door behind me as I hurried down the stairs.

The front door stood closed, the house silent save for the sound of my own breathing.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing in the emptiness.

No response.

I opened the door cautiously, peering out into the rain-soaked night. The garden stretched before me, empty and still.

But when I looked down, my breath caught in my throat.

A single red rose lay on the doorstep, its petals glistening with raindrops.