The doorbell rang. She crawled out of the warm quilt, yanked her hair in a quick ponytail and scrambled for slippers.
Outside, in a glass vase, sat an assortment of colorful flowers. She glanced at the newspaper that lay beside: the 14th of February. She had always dismissed red roses as a cliche and he knew that.
Her head felt heavy and she shut the door tight, buckling down on the floor, against the door.
A mélange of emotions: confusion, disbelief and then the one that dwarfed them all—grief.
Had he pre-ordered them? Will they arrive every year?