Book Chrysanthemum Novels & Stories

He then said, “Why are you looking at me like that? Chrysanthemums are flowers that are used only during funerals anyway! It’s best if she doesn’t like them anymore! Have the servants get rid of them! Mrs. Thomas was speechless. She loved chrysanthemums too! Barbara frowned and said, “Dad, we’ve already planted them for so long. Why must we get rid of them now?” Britney realized that she had exposed herself. She then said, “It’s not that I hate chrysanthemums. It’s just that I’m in a bad mood because of the pain. I feel like everything’s not to my liking.” Fia frowned. She didn’t feel like Britney said she didn’t like chrysanthemums because of her bad mood. Britney pulled her blanket, and th

The flower before her was a chrysanthemum, a delicate beauty with petals of white tinged with soft yellow. The slender, long petals stretched out firmly from the center, their tips slightly curling inward, showing a humble elegance. At this moment, the leaves had already turned yellow, and upon closer inspection, it became clear that this was merely a branch of the chrysanthemum. The main stem had long since died. The remaining branch had drawn every bit of water and nutrients it could to present its most beautiful self to the world. Selena gazed at the little life in front of her and mocked herself for not being as strong. She did not dare to face Koven, Lucy, or anyone.

She needed some fighting spirit to compete with her! As her footsteps moved through the corridor, she quickly arrived at Chiyoko's bedroom door, which was left ajar. She overheard Nancy enthusiastically persuading her to consume various supplements. Chiyoko was arranging a bunch of champagne roses one by one into a flower vase, wearing a sweet and contented smile. Those vibrant champagne roses were Flora's favorite, symbolizing nobility and purity. Raising her shoes, Flora involuntarily walked towards that exquisite bouquet. Her appearance caught Nancy's attention, who looked at her with a hint of gloating before leaving. Chiyoko also noticed her, and her smile deepened.

Alexandra nodded her head and with each passing second, her smile faded. “It’s in my car; I’ll have Michael bring it in. I hope you’d like it Grandmother.” She brought out her phone and called the assistant. Seconds later he was rushing in with a bouquet of white Chrysanthemum. “Oh, how beautiful.” Eleanor swooned after the bouquet had been handed to her. “Indeed they are. I was trouble over what to give to you and at the last moment thought of this. I searched the meaning up and found the Japanese meaning quite befitting. They are approximately sixty Two there. I hope you like them Grandmother.”

She closed the door behind her slowly. The apartment was still. Not quiet — still. Air too heavy. The smell of something floral. Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf. The flower was back. No — flowers, plural. Five of them now. Each bloom a different color. Crimson. Violet. Cerulean. Pale gold. Ink black. All curling from different books, petals growing like they’d always belonged there. Sea Glass Psalms. The Edge of Dusk. Forgotten Bodies. Every book Aria had buried a piece of herself in — every one of them blooming with impossible color. A spectrum of memories. Of lovers.

Despite having to sort the books under the sun, I felt a peace I had never had before. I blocked Carlo's number on my phone, and my world was finally calm. One day, a gentle voice sounded behind me. "Excuse me, do you know where the book 'Southern Evening' is?" I turned around and saw a man in a white outfit, his smile lighting up his whole face. His name was Luca Perez. After that, he came to the library every day. We talked about books and movies, and we seemed to hit it off well. It wasn't until he invited me out for dinner that I found out his family practically owned the whole street.

Nicolas informed and the mood turned serious. I got out of the car and grabbed the bouquet of Chrysanthemum I had bought. "Do you want me to go with you?" he said and I signalled not to. I walked into the cemetery, my footsteps quiet on the winding path. I slowly navigated through the rows of headstones, familiar with the route to my mother's grave. As I approached, I slowed my pace, my eyes fixed on the simple yet elegant marker bearing her name. With gentle hands, I placed the bouquet of Chrysanthemum flowers on the grave, arranging them with care. I stepped back, my eyes welling up with memories as I gazed at the grave, now adorned with the flowers I had brought to honor her memory.

“Sorry, I’m a bit out of it.” She shrugged, and opening the small door in the gate. She had no umbrella with her, I’m guessing she go out in a hurry. Who wouldn’t when their cousin was standing in front of her own home gate, and staring at her house like a psycho? “Don’t apologize. Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.” I nod, following her through the door. The walkway is just like I remember, on each side are prize winning roses. Of different colors. Huh? When do black roses exist? I took a small detour from following Alexis, bending over a patch of those strange black roses.

The other workers went ahead to take Zeke's luggage out of the car and arrange them in his already prepared room. Zeke rubbed his hands together in excitement as Madam Gloria uncovered the soup before him. He moaned as the sweet aroma hit his nose. "I've missed this scent." He took a spoon full and slurped it. He shut his eyes tightly, savoring the spiciness and sweetness of the soup. "It hasn't changed one bit. It's still the best." Madam Gloria patted his head, grinning ear to ear, "it's great to see this smile on your face again."

And the realization was a sharp, painful ache in my chest, a longing so profound it took my breath away. Later that afternoon, seeking a moment of quiet away from the warm, suffocating embrace of the family, I wandered into the small yard behind the house. It was a humble space, a patch of earth bordered by a low stone wall, yet alive with color. A riot of vibrant flowers—deep purple bellflowers, sunny yellow primroses, and delicate, star-shaped white blooms—spilled over the edges of their beds, their petals soft in the afternoon light. Chrysanthi found me there, her hands smudged with dirt. "It's not much," she said, her voice a soft, gentle murmur. "But it's something."