"TWELVE ROSES" | Chapter 6: December 17 | Meaning

Daily Chapter from December 12- 25 Christmas

Chapter 6: December 17 | Meaning

Anna awoke to the cold of the apartment greeting her like an old enemy as she shuffled into the kitchen. Outside, the sky hung low, thick with gray clouds threatening more snow. She stared at the roses on the counter, their lustrous petals defiant against the drabness of her surroundings. Five now. Each bloom carried a message that felt impossible to believe, yet they lingered in her mind, reshaping the edges of her despair.

Her phone buzzed against the table, pulling her back to the present. She hesitated before picking it up. Another text from her mother.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Thinking of you as always. Hope today is kind to you. ❤️"

Anna ran her thumb over the screen, the ache in her chest familiar but less sharp than before. She typed a response this time, her fingers moving slowly, deliberately.

"Thanks, Mom. I’m okay."

The words were small but honest, and when she hit send, a quiet relief followed. Catherine’s reply came almost immediately.

"I love you, Anna. Let me know if you want to talk."

Anna set the phone down, her hand lingering over it as though it might tether her. She hadn’t felt ready to talk before—not to her mother, not to anyone—but now the idea didn’t seem as suffocating. Not entirely.

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When she opened the door, her hand clutched the last of her morning coffee in her favorite mug—a well-worn Winnie the Pooh cup, given to her in high school by an older classmate from youth group. The faded image of Pooh, reaching endlessly for his honey pot, stirred something deep within her—a fragile connection to the innocence she once carried, sweet and golden, but always just out of reach. Somewhere in her depths, the same longing colored her vision—a search for meaning, for worth, for something that would fill the hollow places she couldn’t quite name. It tugged at her, elusive yet persistent, like a memory of a friend who wouldn’t let go.

And then, just beyond the door, the world offered its own answer: the sixth rose, resting on the mailbox, vivid and alive against the gray morning. It seemed as if the two—the mug and the rose—belonged together in this moment, fragile yet steadfast reminders of something she was only beginning to grasp. Her breath stilled as she stepped into the cold. The flower was just as perfect as the others, its stem wrapped in brown paper, the note tied neatly with twine.

She unfolded it carefully, the words unveiling like a quiet revelation.