Si Rose At Si Alma Here

Rose didn’t look up. “I’m trying to cut my hair. But my hands won’t move.”

Rose was the eldest. She was a still pond in the middle of a library—soft, patient, and folded into herself. She worked at the town’s only flower shop, arranging peonies and baby’s breath with the kind of reverence other people saved for prayer. Her voice was a whisper. Her world was small: the shop, her garden, the kitchen window where she watched the rain. SI ROSE AT SI ALMA

Rose was no longer just a root. Alma was no longer just a fire. Rose didn’t look up