jbrackett
The stem poked out of the tissue paper, the jagged end of a beloved thing. He carried it carefully, ensuring no more exposure. She loved daisies, and he loved her.
Craning her head, she read over his shoulder. She stopped when she read the word "Dead." No longer did she care to understand what was wrong with the man, because she knew she could not help him. A death is a loss without consolation.