There once lived a man. His name was Tom. He was a good man; gentle and kind-hearted. And he was a romantic, with only one true love in life -a rose, tall and beautiful. Tom kept the rose under glass, making sure she was always cared for and protected. He would wake up every morning to see her standing on his dresser, and, smiling, he would say to her, "My dear flower, you are more beautiful today than the last time I looked at you!" The rose would bow as if to thank him, and he would take her outside to give her sunlight. He would bring her water when she was thirsty and give her shade when it was too hot. For years this went on, and Tom was genuinely happy.
Until one day, the sun became too hot and the water in the land dried up. It didn't rain for weeks on end. Though Tom did what he could, saving what little water he had for his rose, it wasn't enough for long. The rose soon lost the red that once pulsed through her petals, her stem's thorns that used to make her beauty even more apparent now seemed harsh, and the softness of her shape became horribly stiff. The life in her was gone forever.
But Tom paid no attention. For many more years he kept her on his dresser, greeting her every morning and kissing her goodnight when the moon came out. He continued to offer her water, even though she did not drink. But no matter how much he ignored the signs, deep down Tom knew what was clear to everyone -the rose,
his rose, was lifeless.
Thirty years went by and Tom grew old until he, too, gave up on life. He was found in his home, tucked under the covers of his warm little bed. In his hand he still tightly grasped one thing -a rose, dead and gone.
