Anna awoke to the cold of the apartment greeting her like an old enemy as she shuffled into the kitchen. Outside, the sky hung low, thick with gray clouds threatening more snow. She stared at the roses on the counter, their lustrous petals defiant against the drabness of her surroundings. Five now. Each bloom carried a message that felt impossible to believe, yet they lingered in her mind, reshaping the edges of her despair.

Her phone buzzed against the table, pulling her back to the present. She hesitated before picking it up. Another text from her mother.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Thinking of you as always. Hope today is kind to you. ❤️"

Anna ran her thumb over the screen, the ache in her chest familiar but less sharp than before. She typed a response this time, her fingers moving slowly, deliberately.

"Thanks, Mom. I’m okay."

The words were small but honest, and when she hit send, a quiet relief followed. Catherine’s reply came almost immediately.

"I love you, Anna. Let me know if you want to talk."

Anna set the phone down, her hand lingering over it as though it might tether her. She hadn’t felt ready to talk before—not to her mother, not to anyone—but now the idea didn’t seem as suffocating. Not entirely.

When she opened the door, her hand clutched the last of her morning coffee in her favorite mug—a well-worn Winnie the Pooh cup, given to her in high school by an older classmate from youth group. The faded image of Pooh, reaching endlessly for his honey pot, stirred something deep within her—a fragile connection to the innocence she once carried, sweet and golden, but always just out of reach. Somewhere in her depths, the same longing colored her vision—a search for meaning, for worth, for something that would fill the hollow places she couldn’t quite name. It tugged at her, elusive yet persistent, like a memory of a friend who wouldn’t let go.

And then, just beyond the door, the world offered its own answer: the sixth rose, resting on the mailbox, vivid and alive against the gray morning. It seemed as if the two—the mug and the rose—belonged together in this moment, fragile yet steadfast reminders of something she was only beginning to grasp. Her breath stilled as she stepped into the cold. The flower was just as perfect as the others, its stem wrapped in brown paper, the note tied neatly with twine.

She unfolded it carefully, the words unveiling like a quiet revelation.

"You mean something."

The words struck her harder than she expected, like a stone dropped into a still pond. She pressed the note to her chest, her breath catching in the cold air. It wasn’t just that the words felt foreign—it was that a part of her wanted to believe them. More than that, a part of her needed to.

Her mind buzzed with questions as she carried the rose inside. The mysterious gestures were no longer just a curiosity; they were a lifeline. Each note pulled her a little further from the hollow place she’d been sinking into, forcing her to confront the possibility of hope.

But who could be leaving them? The question haunted her as she got ready for work, as she moved through the motions of the day. She thought of her mother, her brothers, even Beth. Could any of them be doing this? Each time, the answer felt both possible and impossible.

At work, the noise of the office barely registered. Anna stared at her computer screen, the numbers and charts blurring together. Her mind was somewhere else—on the roses, on the words, on the life growing inside her.

The baby. She had avoided thinking about it directly, afraid of the enormity it carried. But today, the thought refused to stay buried. Her hand moved to her womb instinctively, resting there as though to remind herself it was real.

She thought about the decision she hadn’t made yet, the one she couldn’t avoid much longer. The idea of bringing a child into her broken life terrified her. What could she offer? She could barely hold herself together, let alone raise a child.

But then there was the other choice—the one she hadn’t allowed herself to name out loud. It hung over her like a shadow, heavy and cold. She wanted to believe it would be easier, that it would erase the fear and guilt pressing against her chest. But the thought didn’t bring relief. It brought something deeper, darker.

You mean something.

The note’s message echoed in her mind, and again, she wondered if it wasn’t just meant for her. What if it was for the child too? The thought shook her, and she pushed it away, focusing instead on the screen in front of her.

That evening, her childhood friend and coworker, Beth, stopped by unannounced, holding a coffee in one hand and a bakery bag in the other. Anna blinked at her friend, surprised but not entirely unhappy to see her.

“I figured you could use this,” Beth said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She handed Anna the coffee and set the bag on the counter. “Chocolate croissant. Your favorite.”

“Thanks,” Anna said, her voice soft.

Beth’s eyes swept across the kitchen, her gaze stopping abruptly on the roses. Her brows shot up, her expression a mix of curiosity and confusion. She knew only the barest details Anna had confided—the silence, the absence of "the one who shall not be named."

“Okay,” Beth said, gesturing toward the roses with a pointed look. “What’s with the flowers? Did you start seeing someone new and conveniently forget to tell me?”

“No,” Anna said quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Someone’s been leaving them for me.”

Beth’s brow furrowed. “Someone? Like who?”

“I don’t know,” Anna admitted. “They just... show up.”

Beth moved closer to the roses, studying them. “And you have no idea who’s leaving them?”

“No,” Anna repeated, her voice quieter. “Each one comes with a note. They’re... encouraging. I guess.”

Beth picked up one of the notes, reading it aloud. “‘You matter.’” She turned to Anna, her expression softening. “That’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Anna said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it’s your mom? Or one of your brothers?” Beth asked.

Anna shook her head. “I don’t think so. My mom would have said something. And my brothers... I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like them.”

Beth placed the note back on the counter, her gaze thoughtful. “Whoever’s leaving them seems to care about you.”

Anna swallowed hard, the words stirring something deep inside her. “Maybe.”

Beth placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not as alone as you think, Anna. Someone sees you.”

The words mirrored the notes so closely that Anna felt her chest tighten. She wanted to believe them—wanted it so badly it hurt.

Beth stayed for a while, chatting about work and her plans for Christmas. But when she left, the apartment felt quieter than ever. Anna sat at the table, staring at the roses, her thoughts a storm of questions and emotions.

She picked up the newest note, her fingers tracing the letters as if to feel their weight.

"You mean something."

Her hand drifted to her womb, resting there as she voiced the words softly into the still.

“You mean something.”

The enormity of the decision before her hadn’t diminished, but it no longer felt like hers to bear alone. The roses, the notes, the steady echoes of hope—they didn’t erase her fear, but they anchored her, offering something she could hold on to. Something worth fighting for.

And that, she realized, was a kind of strength.