Anna had begun to notice the rhythm of her days. They started with waking up alone, the silence of her apartment amplified by Tayler’s absence. She avoided her reflection in the mirror as much as she could, tired of seeing the same lost woman staring back. Her routine felt like walking through quicksand—getting dressed, forcing herself out the door, trudging to work through the cold that seemed to cut straight to her bones.

But the roses had introduced something new. A thread of anticipation, fragile and quiet, tugged at her when she woke. She didn’t want to acknowledge it—not fully—but it was there. A part of her wondered if today would bring another.

And when she opened the door to leave for work, there it was.

The mailbox held the fourth rose, its deep red petals almost glowing against the icy black metal. Anna stared for a long moment before stepping out to claim it. Her breath puffed out in little clouds as she lifted the flower, her fingers fumbling with restrained urgency as she worked the twine free.

The note unfolded in her hand, and the words etched into it hit her like a breath of warm air on her frozen heart:

"You matter.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, all she could do was stare. The simplicity of the words didn’t diminish their heavy weight. In fact, their straightforwardness made them heavier. She hadn’t thought of herself as mattering in a long time. Maybe not ever.

The tears that came this time weren’t hot or bitter. They were soft, steady, as though something inside her had begun to thaw. She brought the rose inside, setting it carefully in the vase with the others. The four blooms stood together now, their vividness a small rebellion against the drabness of her apartment.

She sat down at the kitchen table, holding the note in her hands. The words lingered, looping through her thoughts like a quiet melody. You matter.

But to whom?

She glanced at her phone. No messages from Tayler. Of course not. She didn’t even know where he was. She thought about her parents—Catherine’s gentle persistence, her father’s reserved distance. They mattered to each other, certainly. But to them, did she?

The thought felt like a wound, and she turned away from it, focusing instead on the roses. Whoever was leaving them didn’t know her—or didn’t know her well enough to see the full picture. If they did, would they still leave them?

At work, she tried to focus on her tasks, but the note weighed on her, its message cutting through her usual haze of guilt and despair. You matter. It felt alien, like it was trying to find a home in a heart that didn’t know how to accept it.

During her lunch break, she found herself scrolling through old text threads with her brothers. David’s messages were sparse and curt, as if written between important meetings. He was always busy, always far away. Paul’s messages were warmer, more frequent, but even those carried an undertone of distance. She had never felt fully part of their worlds—not when she was the sister who always seemed to be the family’s disappointment.

A message from her mother buzzed on her screen, pulling her attention back to the present.

"Hi, honey. Just wanted to remind you we love you so much. If you need anything, I’m always here. ❤️"

Anna stared at the words, her throat tightening. She could hear Catherine’s voice in them, full of love that felt undeserved. A bitter part of her wanted to scoff at the message, but another part—a quieter, softer part—felt a pull toward it. Could her mother’s words mean the same thing as the note? Could Catherine truly believe that Anna mattered?

She put her phone down without responding.

Walking home that evening, Anna felt the magnitude of her thoughts pressing against her chest. The sky had turned a soft lavender, the snow reflecting the last light of the day. The world felt too big and too small all at once. She passed families shopping, children bundled in scarves and mittens, their laughter piercing the crisp air. She wondered if she’d ever feel that lightness again.

The apartment felt colder than usual when she stepped inside. She kicked off her boots and stared at the roses, their presence a strange kind of warmth in the dim kitchen. She thought about the messages.

You are not alone. You are known. You are loved. You matter.

They felt like pieces of a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve, fragments of a truth she couldn’t yet believe. And yet, they were here, as persistent and gentle as her mother’s texts, as steady as the snow falling outside her window.

She thought about the baby again. Her hand moved to her womb, resting there as if seeking balance. The child didn’t know her doubts, her failures, or her fears. It only knew her heartbeat. And for once, the thought felt less like a weight and more like a quiet possibility.

She whispered the words aloud, her voice trembling as she tested them:

"You matter."

Her hand lingered over her womb, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if the words could be true—not just for her, but for the life she carried. Could this child matter, even with the world as it was? Could it matter despite her mistakes?

Anna didn’t have the answers. But as she sat at the table, surrounded by roses, the question itself felt like a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.