The Rose Thief

• Azariah Wigley-Gill, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

The night smells of wood smoke and flowers. Silvery moonlight spills over dew-drenched grass as the garden slumbers, every leaf and blossom cloaked in a lacy blanket of frost. A man’s thumping footsteps fracture the still night, his ragged breaths clouding in the frigid air. Pale fingers, clumsy with cold, fumble the latch. The dark figure edges carefully inside, his crippling limp barely a hindrance after so many years of practice. Worn leather boots shuffle forward, treading the familiar path. A tattered brown coat shrouds shoulders curled inward with age. His ancient face is lined with cavernous wrinkles, a countenance carved of stone with weary eyes that hold a desperate sort of focus.

Nothing stirs inside the fine house as the old man passes, just meters beneath their window. Nobody glances forth to see his crooked silhouette, painted in faded hues by the light of the moon. Never once in five years had they noticed him. The man mumbles distractedly to himself as he passes bushes laden with pristine blossoms that sparkle like gemstones in the dew, shrouding the garden in their heady perfume. He ignores them, gaze never wavering from the path before him.

A pale, wrinkled hand reaches with greedy haste into the thicket. Leaves and stems are shoved roughly aside, fingers grasping desperately for the blossom. Wicked thorns lash out, though he scarcely notices. Blood trickles down his wrist. The bush quivers and his hand retreats, triumphant, a single rose gripped between his fingers. The flower shimmers deep red, a striking hue even in the half-light.
Memories flood through his wandering mind, broken fragments of a younger time. Long hair ablaze with sunlight. Love letters slipped through an open window. A pink dress and waltzing beneath the moon. And stolen roses. Always roses.
He sighs as the images slip back into the depths of his jumbled memory. Mottled hands clutch the treasure closer; its velvet surface a flawless beauty against his rough skin. A brief, beautiful smile flits across his face. She would love this. He limps back through the gate with renewed purpose, leaving nothing but dark footprints on the dewy grass.

Shadowed buildings loom above him, reaching toward the sky as he shuffles deeper through town. His boots scuff against the slick cobblestones, creating an eerie echo in the empty streetscape. Tendrils of darkness press upon him, silently urging him closer to his destination, the rose clenched in cold, trembling hands. Moonlight recaptures the spectral figure as he emerges into the square, stumbling toward where he knew she would be waiting. He hurries, breath catching, some shadow of anticipation carrying him to the elegant building that dominates the village square. Another gate, which opens with a rusty groan of protest. Finally. Profound relief softens his shoulders as he reaches the spot.
“For you, my love” he whispers, hoarse voice impossibly tender. The rose tumbles from his fingers to land on the frosty earth.
The graveyard gate creaks gently shut behind him.