White Flowers

A young woman smells the white flowers as she waits in the park.

The young woman sat at the park on the usual bench. She took one of the many white flowers that rest near her, holding it between her fingers; its fresh smell made her remember the first time she met him near the fountain that rests in front of her.

People were walking around, each person holding a share of happiness or grief. But the woman does not notice any of them, only blurry figures moving from left to right, while she tries to find that silhouette of the man she cares about. Nothing else matters.

Listening to all the voices gathered around was hard—many words at once, unintelligible, unimportant; not his voice between the other noises.

The woman never asked herself how long she has been waiting there. The sun is about to hide behind the mountains. The blurry human forms reduced their numbers, and no one reminiscent of Michael has shown up yet. She never stopped smiling at the hope. Anything could have happened that was making him late.

A tear fell. A smile got warmer on the young woman’s face. An old man approached the bench; he did not say a single word, just let out a sight.
The old man left a white flower on the bench and walked away. She was glad to see him again.