The Black Letter

Chapter 7: Ominous Rose Scent

The vibrant roses slowly bloomed, their fragrant scent wafting, wafting into the nostrils when suddenly a drop of soft, fresh red blood seeped out from the heart of the flower...

"Ah—" John screamed as he sat up in bed.

It was morning, and a dazzling golden light filled the room. John quickly covered his eyes, needing a moment to adjust. He was still thinking about that dream, the scent of roses...

Roses! John was startled. He had thought it was just a dream, but now he could actually smell the scent of roses.

John got up and walked out of his room. As he neared the staircase, he glanced at the dark corner where he remembered the words he had heard in the house the day before, but he hurried straight to the ground floor hall.

The old lady and Christina were still bent over, trimming the plants in the yard, their expressions serious, their smiles joyful. It was clear they cherished these plants. Maybe they had planted roses too, John thought as he slowly approached.

"Ah, you're up," Christina said, lifting her head as a strand of hair gently slid across her forehead. She tucked it behind her ear. "You really love to sleep in, sleeping almost till noon."

"Ah, yes, I...really...didn't expect to oversleep," John said, lowering his head in embarrassment.

"I see your wound is almost healed. After tonight, you should leave," the old lady said without even looking up, her voice muffled.

"Oh," John responded softly, wondering, Where would he go? Could he explain that he lived right next door, that he was their neighbor? John chuckled bitterly. He believed that was not something he could explain in a short time, so he changed the subject. "The flowers are beautiful, did you and Christina plant them together?"

The old lady looked up at John, said nothing, and continued to weed.

"Yes, Grandma and I both love these flowers very much," Christina said with an innocent smile.

"Which ones are the roses?" John remembered the scent.

"Roses? We've never grown roses. Grandma says they look too frail and delicate, hard to take care of, so we've never kept them," Christina said as she loosened the soil around the flowers.

John suddenly looked up. They had never grown roses, but he had indeed smelled them.

Could it be an illusion? Impossible! Absolutely impossible!

He looked around, even focusing all his attention on his nose, believing he could find that scent.

Unfortunately, the scent was gone.

"Don't you trust me?" the old lady asked coldly, looking at John. "Are you so interested in that flower?"

"No, I'm just curious," John said, wiping his nose, trying to cover up his embarrassment. "I want to know why the John you mentioned yesterday jumped off the building?"

"How am I supposed to know? Although we've been neighbors for many years, I've never seen him or spoken to him. If it weren't for his death this time, I wouldn't even know his name was John," the old lady said without even lifting her head.

"Wasn't his identity confirmed after he died?" John asked cautiously.

"You're ridiculous. He jumped from the building himself. The police checked and confirmed it was suicide. Even his girlfriend is preparing to hold a funeral for him. Why are you so interested in this, do you know him?" Christina cut in eagerly before the old lady could speak.

"I don't know him, I'm just curious," John's eyes deepened, and he stopped asking questions, instead lifting his head to look at the wall again.

At night, when the last light went out, a shadow slipped into the yard.

John looked up at the night sky and suddenly realized he had become a thief, sneaking around at night. He found it amusing, but he had to find out the truth.

John believed there must be roses in this yard because his nose had picked up that familiar scent again.

But he wandered around the yard for a while and didn't find a single rose bush. He began to doubt his nose—was he just overly sensitive these days?

Then a strong rose scent again. John stood still, suddenly feeling that the scent wasn't coming from this yard but seemed to be coming from behind the house.

Could there be another yard behind the house? With this thought, John cautiously walked to a corner of the house, lit his lighter, and looked carefully. Indeed, there was a wooden door there that seemed to blend with the house, only visible up close.

"Squeak—" The door made a soft noise, and John quickly stopped his hand. He looked into the yard, saw no one, and continued to pull the door open wide enough to slip through sideways.

Roses, roses everywhere, each one crimson as blood under the moonlight, each fragrance sweet and heady. John was stunned. Why had the old lady lied to him? Why had Christina lied to him? He suddenly realized he couldn't trust anyone around him. John gently touched each rose bush, wondering why there were so many roses here, what were they for? John crouched down, his head bowed as he examined the rose in front of him. It seemed well-grown and appealing, obviously well-cared for. John scraped away the soil and suddenly saw a white object peeking out. What was it? John hurriedly sped up, digging in the dirt, and after about half a minute, he could finally see what it was.

Bones, a human bone!

John was so shocked that he couldn't help but cry out, "Ah—" The scream pierced the night.

A stick swung down, and John just grunted before losing consciousness, collapsing to the ground.

"Just three days." A voice sounded beside John, but unfortunately, John couldn't hear it anymore.