The delivery driver was already halfway back to his van when I hurried to the doorway and called after him.

“Excuse me! Are you certain these flowers are meant for me?”

He paused, checked the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then glanced back at the label.

“Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re yours, ma’am.”

He offered me a polite but slightly puzzled smile, the sort of expression a young man wears when delivering an extravagant bouquet to an elderly woman who clearly lives alone.

“Have a nice day.”

Then he climbed into his van and disappeared down the street.

I remained in the doorway, barely able to see over the enormous bouquet in my arms.

Yellow roses.

Dozens of them.

Their fragrance filled the chilly morning air as I carried them into the kitchen and placed them carefully on the table.

Something about the bouquet bothered me.

So I counted them.

Then I counted them again.

Fifty-six.

My hand froze on the last stem.

Fifty-six yellow roses.

Today would have been my fifty-sixth wedding anniversary.

For several moments, I simply stared at them.

Nobody sent me flowers anymore.

Most of my closest friends had passed away, and the handful who remained certainly wouldn’t spend hundreds of dollars on such an elaborate arrangement.

I lived carefully on my retirement income.

And I had never bought flowers for myself.

No.

This wasn’t an accident.

Fifty-six was far too precise.

I pulled the largest vase I owned from beneath the sink.

It was an old crystal vase someone had given us as a wedding gift, one I had barely used over the decades.

I filled it with water and began arranging the roses.

Then something scraped sharply against my thumb.

“Ow.”

I jerked my hand away, expecting a thorn.

But there was no thorn.

Deep between the fresh roses was something strange.

Something yellow.

Something crushed and faded.

Paper.

Carefully, I pulled it free.

It was supposed to be a rose.

At least, I thought it was.

Someone had folded an old piece of yellow paper into a flower, but whoever made it clearly had no talent for delicate work.

The petals were uneven.

One side leaned farther outward than the other.

The paper stem had been strengthened with an old strip of tape that had turned amber with age.

I almost laughed.

It was easily the ugliest paper rose I had ever seen.

Then I turned it over.

Near the bottom of the stem, written faintly in pencil, was a single letter.

J.

My breath stopped.

I knew that handwriting.

I would have known it after a hundred lifetimes.

James.

My husband.

The man who had disappeared fifty-six years earlier.

I dropped into the nearest chair so suddenly that its legs scraped loudly across the kitchen floor.

One of the real roses fell from the table.

“No,” I whispered.

“That can’t be possible.”

But the flower remained in my hand.

Old.

Fragile.

Real.

And bearing James’s initial.

For the first time in decades, a question I had spent half my life forcing myself not to ask rose inside me.

Could James somehow still be alive?

James and I had only been married for two days before he left.

Two days.

Yet somehow, those two days shaped the next fifty-six years of my life.

We married in my parents’ backyard while he was home on leave.

There were twenty-three guests, folding chairs borrowed from church, and a homemade wedding cake that leaned embarrassingly to one side.

My mother cried almost throughout the ceremony.

Later, James teased her while holding a paper cup of punch.

“Don’t cry, Mrs. Doyle. I’m only borrowing your daughter. I’m not stealing her.”

My mother lifted the cake knife toward him.

“You bring her back happy, James. Otherwise, you’ll answer to me.”

James looked across the yard at me in my yellow dress.

“That’s the plan,” he said.

“That’s the whole plan.”

We spent two wonderful days pretending our future was guaranteed.

We talked about buying a modest house.

Having children.

Maybe getting a dog.

Building a porch where we could sit when we were old.

On our first morning as husband and wife, James made the coffee ridiculously strong but drank it anyway because he refused to admit he had ruined it.

We walked through the neighborhood holding hands, feeling strangely grown-up because now we were officially married.

Then the third morning came.

His leave was over.

I stood beside him at the old downtown train station wearing the yellow cotton dress he loved.

He always said the color made me look like sunshine.

Before boarding the train, he pulled me into his arms.

“Next anniversary,” he whispered, “I’m buying you the biggest bouquet of yellow roses I can find. So many you won’t even be able to see over them.”

I laughed.

“You’d better. I only married you for the flowers.”

James threw his head back and laughed.

That was the last time I ever heard that laugh.

Several weeks later, his unit came under attack overseas.

Some soldiers were killed.

Others disappeared during the chaos.

James was listed as missing.

His closest friend, Adrian, eventually returned home.

One gloomy afternoon, he sat across from me in my parents’ living room, his military cap clutched between his hands.

For a long time, he couldn’t look at me.

Finally, he said quietly,

“I saw the explosion, Mary.”

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But I don’t believe James could have survived.”

No body was ever recovered.

Eventually, the official paperwork arrived.

Presumed dead.

Two words.

That was all I received after losing my husband.

Presumed.

Not confirmed.

Presumed.

It left the smallest opening for hope, and that tiny opening haunted me for decades.

I never remarried.

There were opportunities.

Kind men.

Good men.

My mother encouraged me to move forward while she was still alive.

Friends did too.

But some stubborn piece of my heart remained on that train platform.

Maybe it was loyalty.

Maybe it was foolishness.

Or maybe you cannot truly close a door when nobody ever allowed you to say goodbye.

Still, I built a life.

I worked as a bookkeeper for more than thirty years.

Numbers became comforting because they followed rules.

They added up properly.

Life rarely did.

I bought a small house on my own.

Paid the mortgage myself.

Kept a garden.

Loved my nieces, nephews, and later their children.

My life was quiet.

Not unhappy.

But there was always an empty chair somewhere inside it.

Until this morning.

Until fifty-six yellow roses appeared on my anniversary.

And hidden among them was an ugly paper flower carrying James’s initial.

My hands trembled as I searched through the bouquet again.