Rose

A Stranger, a Well, and What Remained at Dawn

When the cloaked observer walked into the village

he held a lantern. The flame was a strange mixture of purple and red. He wore a long-stemmed thorny rose on his left breast.

He was barefoot. He had no luggage.

The villagers wondered if they had awoken within a dream.

He walked and stopped by the village well. Used the rope to pull up a bucket. Held the ladle to his lips to slake his thirst.

Rose-colored water ran down between his toes. Made a puddle around his feet.

A heavy fog rolled into town. Like tumbleweed. It engulfed him. Wind churned and knocked on the doors of the villagers.

They refused to open their doors. The storm quelled. Silence came with the dawn.

Nothing remained by the well. Save one red rose. Growing through the cracks of stone.

A story by Pemba Umoja