The world outside was hushed, the fresh blanket of snow muffling the usual city noise. Anna sipped her coffee at the kitchen table, the roses a vivid splash of color against the gray light filtering through the window. Each bloom seemed to carry its own quiet strength, their presence a daily reminder of something she couldn’t yet name but was starting to trust.

She traced the words on the note from the previous day: "You are seen." It lingered in her mind, not as a certainty but as a question she wasn’t ready to answer. Being seen meant being vulnerable, and that was a burden she didn’t know how to carry.

The morning’s walk to meet Beth felt longer than usual. The cold nipped at her cheeks, and her boots crunched through the snow, but her thoughts were louder than the city around her. She hadn’t told Beth about the baby yet. She hadn’t told anyone. The secret sat heavy in her chest, a barrier she couldn’t seem to cross.

Beth was already at the café, her warm smile cutting through Anna’s hesitation as she slid into the seat across from her. Two steaming cups of coffee sat on the table, the aroma curling between them like a bridge.

“You look better,” Beth said, her eyes scanning Anna’s face. “Not great, but... better.”

Anna’s lips curved into a faint smile, a trace of warmth softening her expression. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I mean it,” Beth said, leaning forward. “You seem... I don’t know. Less weighed down.”

Anna hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. She thought about the roses, the notes, the strange, fragile hope they had begun to awaken in her. “I guess I’ve been... thinking. About things. About... life.”

Beth’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across her face. “You know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever’s going on, I’m here.”

Anna’s throat tightened. She wanted to tell Beth, to let someone else shoulder the burden of her secret for a while. But the words felt too big, too heavy, too raw. She glanced out the window, the snow falling softly against the glass, and took a deep breath.

“Thanks, Beth,” she said finally, her voice soft. “That means a lot.”

Beth didn’t press her, and for that, Anna was grateful. They talked about other things instead—work, Christmas plans, the strange quiet of the city this time of year. But as Anna listened, she felt the words she hadn’t spoken pressing against her heart, waiting for their moment.

When she got home, she wasn’t surprised to find the ninth rose waiting for her. She picked it up carefully, her breath fogging in the cold air as she untied the note. The words met her with a tremor of warmth, a quiet echo of something she hadn’t dared to believe.

"You are worthy.”

Her chest tightened as she stared at the note, her fingers trembling. Worthy. The word felt impossible, like it belonged to someone else entirely. She had spent so long convincing herself she wasn’t—that her mistakes, her failures, her doubts had stripped her of any worth she might have had.

And yet, the words were here, written plainly, as if they were undeniable.

She brought the rose inside, adding it to the vase with the others. Nine now. Each one carrying a message that felt like a puzzle piece she couldn’t quite put together.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Anna cleaned the apartment, rearranging the same clutter she always ignored. She thought about the note, the word worthy repeating in her mind like the ticking of a clock. It didn’t feel true, but it didn’t feel entirely false either. It felt... possible.

She thought about the baby again. The life inside her didn’t care about her doubts, her mistakes, her fears. It didn’t measure her worth the way she did. It simply grew, steady and sure, a quiet reminder of something beyond herself.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother.

"Hi, sweetheart. Just wanted you to know I’m praying for you today. You’re so loved. ❤️"

Anna stared at the message, her throat tightening. Her mother’s love had always been constant, unwavering, even when Anna felt like she didn’t deserve it. Maybe that was what worthiness meant—not something you earned, but something you were given. Something you already had.

She typed a reply before she could overthink it.

"Thanks, Mom. I needed that today."

Catherine’s reply came almost immediately.

"Always here for you, Anna. Always."

The words settled in her chest like a gentle warmth, pushing back the coldness that had lived there for so long.

That night, Anna sat at the table, the ninth rose cradled in her hands. She turned over the notes in her mind—the messages, the hope they had quietly awakened within her. She thought about her mother, about Beth, about the baby. And, hesitantly, about herself.

She spoke the words aloud, her voice unsteady but resolute.

"You are worthy."

They didn’t feel entirely true—not yet. But they no longer felt out of reach, and for now, that was enough.