THE ROSES ARE GONE

LUCY

"We're here, miss."

I look up.

The iron gates of Oakridge estate stand exactly where they've always stood. Tall. Black. Home.

My hands shake as I pay the driver. The Uber pulls away. The gate's right there. Twenty feet away.

I walk. My legs feel disconnected from my body.

I knock. Metal against metal.

The gate opens a crack. A man peers out, suspicious.

"Yes?"

"I–I need to c-come inside."

"Who are you looking for?"

"My father. Richard M-Morrison."

His brow furrows. "Morrison?"

"Yes. He owns this place. I'm his d-daughter."

"I don't know any Morrison." His tone sharpens. "Who told you to come here?"

"N-no one told me. This is my f-father's house. I grew up here."

"Look, I don't know what you're—"

Headlights sweep across us.

A car slows at the gate. Expensive. Silver sedan.

The guard steps back. "That's Mr. Chen."

The gate swings open.

The car rolls forward, then stops. The window lowers.

A man leans out, his wife beside him. Both studying me.

"Is there a problem, Marcus?" he asks the guard.

"This woman says she's looking for someone named Morrison. Says he's her father. Says she grew up here."

Mr. Chen looks at me. Takes in the way I'm clutching my bag like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

"You're Morrison's daughter?"

Relief floods through me. "Yes. Richard Morrison. You kn-know him?"

His brow furrows. Confused. " Richard Morrison?" He glances at his wife, then back at me. "I'm sorry, I don't... When was the last time you were here?"

My chest tightens. "Four years."

His face changes. Understanding. Pity.

"It's alright, Marcus," he tells the guard quietly. "I'll take care of this."

The guard nods, steps aside.

"Come inside," Mr. Chen says to me.

The car pulls through and I follow

Then I see it.

Wrong.

The roses are gone. The ones Dad planted for Mom. The ones he watered every morning in his bathrobe, talking to them like they could hear him.

Gone.

Hedges now. Trimmed. Perfect. Foreign.

No. No, no.

Dad would never touch those roses. Never.

And the house – cream paint instead of the warm yellow he chose because it reminded him of Mom.

My chest tightens. I can't breathe.

The car parks. The couple gets out.

I stand frozen. The fountain's different. The stone bench where Dad sat every evening – gone.

"Miss?"

I turn.

Mr. Chen walks toward me. "My name's David. We bought this property three years ago."

Three years.

Exactly when Kelvin said–

"I don't know much about the previous owner," David continues, "but I can call the man who sold it to us. Maybe he knows where your father is now."

Hope flickers, desperate and pathetic.

"P-please."

David pulls out his phone, steps away. His voice drops low.

"Yes, hello. This is David Chen... Richard Morrison's daughter is here... Right now... I see. How soon can you–? Alright."

He hangs up. Walks back.

"He's coming. His name is Robert."

Robert. Dad's best friend.

My vision tunnels.

"Come inside," David says gently. "You shouldn’t wait out here."

I follow because my legs are moving and my brain has stopped working.

The front door opens.

And everything inside is wrong too.

---

I step into the living room and stop breathing.

Wrong furniture. Modern. Clean lines. Nothing like Dad's leather Chesterfield.

The walls are gray now. Not the warm cream.

Strangers' photos hang where our family used to be.

"Please, sit." David's voice pulls me back.

I sink onto the couch. My legs won't hold me anymore.

David steps away. His wife hovers near the kitchen doorway, watching me like I might shatter.

The clock on the wall ticks.

I count the seconds. Lose count. Start again.

A knock at the door.

I flinch.

David appears. "That's him."

He walks to the front door. I hear it open. Low voices. Footsteps.

The living room door swings wide.

And Robert walks in.

Silver hair. Familiar walk. The same lines around his eyes from smiling too much.

He stops when he sees me.

All the color drains from his face.

"Lucy."

I stand. My legs barely work.

"Where's my dad?"

Robert doesn't move. His eyes drop to my cheek – the swelling from Patricia's slap.

"What happened to your face?"

"Where is he?" My voice cracks. "Robert, please. Where's my father?"

Silence stretches.

His mouth opens. Closes.

"You don't know," he whispers. "Oh God, Lucy. You really don't know."

"Tell me where he is!"

"He's gone." Robert's eyes fill with tears. "Sweetheart, your father died three years ago."

The world stops.

No sound.

No air.

Nothing.

"No."

"I'm so sorry—"

"NO!" I lunge forward. "You're lying! Everyone keeps lying!"

My legs give out.

I collapse, but Robert catches me before I hit the floor.

The sound that tears out of me doesn't sound human. It's raw. Animal. The grief of three years I didn't know I needed to feel.

Three years.

My father has been dead for three years.

And I didn't know.

I never said goodbye.

Never told him I loved him one more time.

Never—

The sobs wrack my chest so violently I can't breathe. Can't see. Can't think.

Robert holds me, kneeling on the floor, and I can feel him shaking too.

"I've got you," he whispers. But he doesn't.

Nobody does.