100 words x 365 days.
A red rose a day, her face lit up with delight—a simple gesture taken straight to the heart. As the days grew shorter, so did his love. She found herself longing for the smell of a flower, not her favorite, though. It was one that held the memories on each petal it grew. Fragile and full of tiny veins, the petals of a rose drank from the rays of the sun, but as the summer rain left, she visited the gardens and painted them all red. With a prick of her finger, she covered gardened with her liquid of life.
A. J. Luna