What’s behind red flower ? any guess

Spring had unfurled in the park, and the vine-wrapped bench was now framed by daffodils and tulips—all except one spot, right beside the ivy plant we’d buried for Marisol’s grandma, where a single red rose bush stood. Its petals were deep, velvety crimson, and it bloomed alone, like a secret tucked between the green. “I swear it wasn’t here last week,” Marisol said, leaning down to brush a petal with her finger, her black curly hair falling over her shoulders. “What’s behind red flower? Any guess?”

I knelt beside her, my hand brushing hers—our rings clinking softly—and studied the bush. Its roots were new, the soil still loose, and tied to one of its thorns was a tiny piece of twine, frayed at the ends. “Looks like someone planted it on purpose,” I said, glancing around the park. The usual morning crowd was there—dog walkers, kids chasing pigeons, an old man feeding the ducks—but no one seemed to be watching us. Marisol bit her lip, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Grandma loved red roses,” she said. “She used to grow them in her backyard. Said they were ‘love’s loudest whisper.’”

The question lingered between us all week. We’d visit the rose every morning, Marisol bringing a small watering can, me sketching its petals in my book. Each time, she’d tilt her head and ask, “What do you think’s behind it?” and each time, I’d shrug—though I secretly hoped it was something sweet, something from her grandma. On Thursday, I noticed a small crack in the soil near the bush’s base, like something was buried there. I didn’t mention it to Marisol; I wanted to wait, to share the discovery with her when the moment felt right.

Saturday morning was sunny, the kind of spring day that made the park glow. Marisol arrived with her usual iced tea, her curls bouncing as she walked, and we sat on the bench, watching the rose sway in the breeze. “Today’s the day,” I said, taking her hand. “Let’s find out what’s behind the red flower.” She grinned, setting down her tea, and we knelt beside the bush together. I gently brushed away the soil, my fingers careful not to prick myself on the thorns, and felt something hard—a small metal box, about the size of a book, with a rusted lock.

Marisol’s breath caught. “That’s grandma’s,” she said, reaching out to touch the box. “I remember it—she kept her old letters in it. She said it was ‘for when life gives you a secret to hold.’” I pulled a small pocketknife from my bag—one my dad had given me—and carefully picked the lock. The box creaked open, and inside, tucked between a stack of yellowed letters, was a folded piece of paper, its edges worn, with Marisol’s name written on it in curly handwriting.

She unfolded it, her hands shaking, and I leaned in to read with her. It was a letter from her grandma, dated a month before she’d passed:

Marisol’s tears fell onto the paper, smudging the ink a little, but she didn’t care. She turned to me, her eyes shining, and pulled me into a hug—tight, like she never wanted to let go. “She knew,” she whispered, her voice broken but happy. “She knew we’d find each other. She knew I’d be okay.” I held her, my hand in her hair, and looked at the red rose, its petals glowing in the sun. It wasn’t just a flower. It was a message—a promise that love, even from beyond, could still wrap around you like a hug.

That afternoon, we took the box to Marisol’s sister’s house. Lila smiled when she saw it, her eyes wet. “Grandma made me promise to plant the rose when you started talking about someone ‘who draws my curls and brings me hot cocoa,’” she said. “She said you’d know it was from her. I was scared to do it—scared it would make you sad—but… she was right. It’s not sad. It’s love.” Marisol hugged her sister, and I watched, my heart full, as the three of us sat at the kitchen table, reading grandma’s letters together.

That night, we went back to the park. The red rose was still blooming, its petals catching the sunset, and we sat on the bench, holding hands, the box of letters between us. “What’s behind red flower?” Marisol said, smiling. “Turns out, it’s everything. Love. Memories. Grandma, watching over us.” I kissed her, slow and soft, the scent of rose petals in the air. “No,” I said, “what’s behind the red flower is us. The life we’re gonna build, together—with her right there, in every moment.”

Now, we visit the rose every weekend. Marisol brings grandma’s letters sometimes, and we read them aloud, sitting on the bench, the ivy curling around our ankles. The kids from the park love it—they call the rose “the magic flower” and ask Marisol to tell them about her grandma. She always does, her voice warm, her curls falling over her shoulder as she talks.

Last week, I found a small sketch I’d drawn of the rose, tucked into the letter box. Marisol had written on the back: “What’s behind red flower? My forever.” I taped it to the inside of my sketchbook, next to the drawing of her curls, next to the Latin phrase that had once felt like an obstacle, now felt like a promise.

Duis efficitur nulla ac imperdiet. Nothing works right in the face of obstacles—but love, we learned, isn’t just about breaking barriers. It’s about finding the secrets they hide: a red rose, a letter, a grandma’s love, waiting to be found. It’s about looking at someone with black curly hair, holding their hand, and knowing—this is what’s behind the flower. This is forever.