The sun hadn’t risen yet when Anna woke, though the faintest gray light seeped through the blinds. The air was still, as if the world outside was holding its breath. She lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, her mind turning over the thoughts that had become constant companions: Tayler’s departure, the baby, the roses, the quiet ache of uncertainty that followed her everywhere.

She sat up slowly, her hand moving to her womb as it often did now. The life inside her was so small, so quiet, yet impossible to ignore. She tried to imagine what it would feel like when the child began to move, pressing against the walls of her body, a quiet reminder of the life growing within her. The thought brought a strange mixture of fear and wonder.

The roses waited in the kitchen, their radiant beauty undiminished. Each one seemed to carry its own quiet strength, defying the cold and darkness that filled her days. Anna ran her fingers over their petals as she waited for her coffee to brew, her gaze lingering on the notes arranged beside them.

You are not alone. You are known. You are loved. You matter. You are stronger than you think.

They were more than words now. They had begun to seep into her, threading their way through her splintered heart. She didn’t believe them entirely, not yet, but she couldn’t ignore them either.

As she drank her coffee, she thought of the person behind the roses. Whoever it was, they knew her—or at least, they saw her. She hadn’t felt seen in a long time. Not by Tayler, not by her family, not even by herself. The realization settled in her chest like a stone.

When she opened the door to leave for work, the seventh rose was waiting.

She picked it up with quivering hands, the cold biting her fingers as she untied the twine. The note unfolded easily, the words written in the same familiar script.

"Your story isn’t over.”

Her heart skipped a beat, a single tear tracing a silent path down her cheek. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the note, the words sinking deep into the part of her that had always believed otherwise.

The office was lively with a festive buzz when Anna arrived, the usual pre-holiday chatter filling the air. She sat at her desk, trying to focus on the tasks in front of her, but the note’s message lingered in the back of her mind like a melody she couldn’t shake. And didn’t want it to.

Your story isn’t over.

What did that even mean? Her life felt like a mess, a string of mistakes and disappointments knotted so tightly she didn’t know how to untangle them. Tayler’s departure was just the latest in a series of failures she carried like stones in her pockets. The idea that her story could be more than that—could be something new, something better—felt like an impossible dream.

Yet, the words were there, insistent and unyielding. And they weren’t alone. They joined the other notes, each one pressing gently against her doubts, her fear, her guilt.

That evening, Anna found herself drawn to the box tucked away in her closet, the one she hadn’t opened in a long time. She pulled it out and set it on the floor, her hands shaking slightly as she lifted the lid.

Inside were remnants of who she used to be. Photos from high school, ticket stubs from concerts she’d loved, a journal she hadn’t written in since she was nineteen. She flipped through its pages, her younger self’s handwriting spilling across in exuberant, looping script.

"I want to do something meaningful with my life."

The words stared back at her, stark against the patient paper, as if it had been waiting all these years to remind her of who she once was. She had written them during her first year of college, before she dropped out, before the crushing reality of her mistakes had begun to splinter her. The girl who had written those words felt like a stranger now—someone distant and untouchable.

Anna closed the journal, her chest tightening. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She didn’t even know who she was now. But as she looked at the roses on her kitchen counter, their quiet beauty defiant against the shadows, she wondered if maybe that was the point.

She sat with the note from the seventh rose, running her fingers over the words as if to feel their truth. "Your story isn’t over." What if it wasn’t? What if everything that had happened—every failure, every mistake, every loss—wasn’t the end of her story, but the beginning of something else?

The thought was terrifying. It was also strangely comforting.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her back to the present. A text from her mother.

"Hi, sweetheart. I just wanted to remind you how much you’re loved. Call me anytime, okay? ❤️"

Anna stared at the message, her throat tightening. She thought of Catherine’s voice, soft and warm, the way it had always been. She thought of her mother’s prayers, quiet and unyielding, a steady rhythm of faith that had never faltered—even when Anna had stopped believing in herself.

Her finger hovered over the call button, hesitating. She hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in weeks. The idea of calling felt daunting, but the ache in her chest pushed her forward. Before she could second-guess herself, she hit the button.

Catherine answered on the second ring. “Anna? Sweetheart, is everything okay?”

Anna swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. “Hi, Mom. I just... I wanted to say thank you. For your texts. For... not giving up on me.”

“Oh, Anna,” Catherine said, her voice thick with emotion. “I could never give up on you. You’re my daughter. I love you more than anything.”

Anna closed her eyes, the tears slipping free. “I don’t feel like I deserve it.”

“You don’t have to deserve it,” Catherine said gently. “That’s not how love works. You don’t have to earn it, Anna. It’s yours, no matter what.”

The words washed over her like a wave, gently softening the edges of her pain. She allowed herself, perhaps for the first time in ages, to believe them.

That night, Anna placed the seventh rose in the vase with the others, the notes arranged in a neat row beside them. She traced the edges of the newest one, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

Your story isn’t over.

She didn’t know what came next, but the thought didn’t terrify her. It filled her with a quiet, fragile hope. And that, she realized, was enough.