in the centre of the table. For a few moments, they seemed to transform the entire house.
Then uneasiness crept in.
Daniel knew I loved white roses.
I had carried white roses at our wedding. He bought them after my mother died. They decorated our table on our fifteenth anniversary.
He would never have chosen yellow.
Then I noticed the number printed on the florist’s tag.
Exactly one hundred.
Not ninety-nine.
Not one hundred and one.
Daniel was thoughtful, but he was not extravagant. There was no birthday, anniversary, or
