At the crossroad, the voices mixed up between the whir of motors and the click-clacking of footsteps. I traversed the road. 

Left and right, my eyes looked for the florist's small shop. The one I always picked out for my symbolic present. However, I had yet to register its exact location in my tired head. 

The middle-aged woman, the florist, I searched for. I spotted her car near the entrance of the park, slowly became my advisor in the language of flowers. 

The sight of young couples colored the vast green landscape. It gave the momentary static picture of nature a sense of life. 

Here in this big metropolis, the spring seemed eternal despite the touch of cold. 

A nearby laugh delighted my ears. I didn't know why Jacob's face flashed in my memory. Why did he rest his right hand on my shoulder and wished me luck? 

On the rare occasions that our father took us on a family trip to some nearby park. There was always a foreboding feeling that transcended my happiness. 

The same feelings are now hovering above my head. As if warning me, happiness was something someone like me didn't deserve. 

At the front of the small shop, I breathed out my insecurities. The event of the dinner party had affected me deeper than I expected. 

Indulging my eyes and nose, I stepped in carefully choosing my moves. 

The flower variation mesmerized my shrunken soul. Nevertheless, the efforts, my demons refused but to get in with me. 

The red roses bouquet made me recall the dead young woman's joyous smile. 

Not long ago, August Olvera's face harbored the reflection of normalcy. Unaffected, rather relieved from what it seemed a forced engagement. 

 I recalled my big brother's remark about the so important operation which the genius August took responsible for. It must have significant importance since he mentioned it.

Was it cotton importation? Nuh, It was totally something else…

The lovely old lady seized my confusing presence. Patiently, she waited for the rationality to slap me awake. 

Under some rare inspiration, I thought maybe I should buy flowers, not just for Anna but for all her family. 

Hum… What I am supposed to choose this time? 

Evelyn is obsessed with sunflowers. My mother preferred white roses. 

What is happening now was exactly a copy of what happened back then? When I came here to buy flowers to court Anna. How fast time flew by, not waiting for anyone's plan.

Helpful, the old lady explained the meaning of each flower in her collection. With effective advice, she concluded her essay, asking about the occasion and the person I was going to buy flowers for.

"Excuse me, Sir, something wrong?" 

If she didn't ask, the light smile tempering with my lips had faded, unnoticed. The woman's complexion took a darker shade, somehow puzzled. Fearful about my well-being. 

Genuine, my face turned to confront her. "Actually, I don't have any idea about what I am supposed to buy." 

A charming, pleased curve-shaped the lower part of my visage when I finished my words. 

Her entire demeanor changed and said back to me, reflecting my smile: “Is it for your special person?”

“It is for someone I respect. Right now, he is very sick...also for his family… I want a bouquet to express my concern, my support, and my gratefulness. ”

The old woman crossed her arms, supported her chin with her right hand, submerged in the exhaustive operation of thinking and choosing before she said: “This is really a feeling hard to convey in one bouquet…”

“I will take whatever you will make.”

Suggestive, with the corner of my eyes, I observed her reaction. Trusting the message I sent had hit its target. 

Motivated, the old woman proceeded with enthusiasm, selecting flowers here and there, combining the chosen ones into various styles. Preparing a bouquet suitable for the situation.

Eased, my secret message was handed to a capable professional. The worries vaporized, and I spent the time inspecting the inside of the shop. 

What got my attention was the coordination of weird flowers on the wall which the florist was beautifying her shop with. I enticed her attention and asked: “What is the name of those flowers?”

Her head moved to where my index was referring and smiled before she answered me:

“Those are not natural flowers, they are made from wool. And I think they are gorgeous, so I tried to decorate my shop with them.”

“OH, I see.” Into the pool of embarrassment, I dived in, yet I kept a composed bearing. How come I couldn't differentiate between the real flowers and the artificial ones? However, the word ¨wool¨ remained hanging in my subconscious.

The wristwatch ticked midday, the main street colored by diverse vehicles, crawling one after the other, in slow motion to counter the passing time. 

With one hand, I sent a wave to the nearest cab, while the other held the big bouquet. 

Avoiding the curious eyes, advancing hastily against the passers-by, my uncertain palm clung into the window glass, desperate. 

The driver asked before I got in: "Going to propose?" 

"Just visiting a sick person?" 

The narrow space of the vehicle forced my agility to grow, afraid to spoil my symbolic present. 

"Your boss?" 

"Oh? Something like that."

The chatty nature of every cab driver never ceased to amaze me. 

Semi-listening to his life story, I fumbled the fallen petals between my fingers. Caressing them in warm pettiness. 

The mundane sceneries flashing beyond the window, arousing my banned trail of reminiscence. 

The artificial flowers at the shop were made of wool… 

Wasn't the Olvera blessed child supervising some Kind of operation about importing wool, natural wool… 

What a lame thing to be responsible for. Is the business of natural wool that profitable… 

Why did my father seem so interested in it? 

Long ago, I learned of his desire to use the Olvera group overgrowing business as an interface to strengthen his legion… But natural wool?… I wonder what he wanted to accomplish. 

My final destination arrived. The driver stopped the car at the entrance of a wealthy residential area. 

Carefully, I liberated my body from the narrow box, paying extra attention to my flowers, afraid of the smallest wrong move. Then my sincerity will be crushed along. 

At the front of the old villa, I took a deep breath before I reached for the doorbell.

A frightening feeling of responsibility overcame my heart whenever I stood in front of this house.

The door lock clicked. A woman in her middle forty greeted my concealed nervousness. She bore an undeniable resemblance to my girlfriend. Fatigue mushroomed under her eyes, among the wrinkles of her forehead nested undeniable hunger for a good sleep. Yet I glimpsed the shining fake hope that never left her eyes.

I didn’t know, because of her weariness or because of my over sensibility. But I always thought  

Anna’s mother's hostility towards me broke world records.  

 When her gaze stopped at my profile, she moved her dry lips, showing a counterfeit pleasure to receive me.

To my amazement, the open arms in front of me created a hugging gesture advanced to cage me in a heated embrace: “I am really grateful that you have come.”

The hiss stung my ear. The flowers bouquet was crushed between our frames. Numbness infested the bit of brain I had. Clumsily, I rushed to return her hug. In that instant, furious, I was at myself. How could the selfish drama in my house make me forget the heavy suffering of this little family...

Anna's mother informed me of her daughter's suffering in those past days. Sewing was her only solace 

 In the living room, and she pleaded to me to surprise her, perhaps my presence will ease her sorrowful burden.

I walked to the living room, as calm as the moment before the storm. And there I saw Anna, my beloved Anna. Behind a wooden table. The colorful wool balls scattered around, like the planets of the universe. Big, sharp needles implanted in each ball, like the painful spears of fate. 

Immersed in her work, my presence, invisible, akin to odorless breeze in late autumn. I halted, motionless, staring at her lethargic lineaments, appraising the change.  

I approached her in slow motion, but sadly my surprise failed when she raised her eyelashes in my direction.

Her hazel eyes widened, glamour sipped through them. She threw everything from her hands, sprinted towards me, welcoming my unforeseen visit. 

In my embrace, I squeezed her tightly, feeling the apparent weight loss as she fitted exactly between my arms.

Our conversation started. Her father's treatment and health development grabbed the central focus of all her worries. 

The ever glittering drop of tear that never reached the red cheek finally flew off. Defeated her firm resolve to be strong. 

My understanding of the situation didn't need a further explanation. The bad news was written in the inexplicable melancholic behavior of the members of this small household. 

I faulted myself in stirring the topic for being less perceptive without prior knowledge.

Before I visited my family, I had heard that the new treatment was working, I guess, it was a false hope.

The doctor informed her mother to get ready for the worst. Speechless, I didn't know what I was supposed to do or say to comfort her.

****

Mr. Marchetti, aside from being one of the big partners at the Clangor law group, I didn't know much about him. I never knew him personally. But he was a famous successful lawyer, an instructor, an influential member of the lawyers' syndicate, and a part of the anti-corruption movement. Which, we, students who aim to specialize in criminal law strove to be like him.

 It was an immense shock to me when I learned he was Anna's beloved father. 

Comparing his image in the workplace and outside of it, proved an even bigger shock. To sum it up, he was a scary monster at work and your average loving dad you could find in every friendly neighborhood.

Yes, ask the one who needed to tolerate him at university, at the law firm. Also, I was deadly afraid to meet him as his little girl boyfriend. 

Back then, I drowned in the nervousness dark sea, and then into the confused barren desert when witnessing the vast difference in his attitude. 

However, I didn't know if he liked me or not.

Anna mentioned to me, on several occasions, that I really knew how to please him. She always tells me, if he didn't like me, he would never approve of our relationship. 

Women’s intuition, their ability to decipher hidden emotions, I will bet on them.  

Though, Mr. Marchetti's opinion of my person, how he viewed me, something very important, to be certain of. Not just as the boyfriend of his little girl. But also, as a student, as a future colleague…

For Anna, those matters were clueless.

 

 I mean, I am already troubled about being approved by my father, about being one of the deep-rooted McCarthy's house. 

Bringing my father into the frame, he and Mr. Marchetti were different men, comparable to a black and white square in a chessboard. They will never overlap and certainly, this wasn't a good comparison.

Nevertheless, and despite our distinct opinions, our conflicting objectives, intents, aims, I do respect Anna’s father. I do respect him for his height, morals, for his diligence, for his parenting view. To a point that it created an urge to be approved by him, to please him in those final days of his. 

After dinner, Anna's mother asked me if I would stay for the night. Her novel attitude towards my person scared me into a silent awkwardness. 

Articulating an apology, the desperate, truthful begging picture drawn on her face made me reconsider my decision. 

She confessed to me before, at the door, my presence had a calming and soothing effect not just on Anna's spirit but also on Liam. The depressing and the heavy atmosphere in this home became lighter during my visits. 

How I was supposed to deflect this confession? 

“I am really very thankful to you, Kieran.”

“Please, if anything happened, give me a call.”

In the guest room, I made myself comfortable. In the dark, I stretched on the wide bed. Sinking into the weariness of a long road. My mind had yet to be exhausted. It traveled in a mosaic journey, reflecting on this little family's current hardship. 

Comparing it to my own, this was the first time the small Marchetti household confronted death. The death of one of their beloved members. 

It dug up the tomb of sad recollections, buried deep in my prison of forbidden tales.

Very young, my first encounter with death. A bitter one. My grandfather's last breaths, his last grasps haunted my sobriety. 

 

The sense of loss and helplessness, the detachment from reality, and the pain of not seeing him again, for a second time. This was why I understood this family's sorrow. I deeply do.

Still… I shouldn’t be listening to this argument…

“I don’t know why you don’t like him, mum? He has been very supportive, affectionate, charming, good-tempered… .” 

“This is exactly my problem as if he had no fault. Isn’t he just acting to get something from you, didn’t your father help him enter the firm just because he is your boyfriend?”

My heart skipped a bit when I didn’t hear Anna deny this. I deserve my internship, but certainly, I couldn’t get it without a behind scene connection… 

“Mum… If you don’t like him, why did you insist for him to stay over.”

“Of course to test him, dear, a person can’t keep his act all day. He will make a mistake, sooner or later, then you will see his true face. And by that time, when your father isn’t with us. When the benefits from this relationship dry off, he will leave you.” 

 “Mum… Enough, I am done, I am not having this conversation while Kieran sleeping above.”

Gently, I took out the earbuds, relaxed my head on the pillow, then I slowly closed my eyes.

Tonight, I dreamed about my grandfather, about the time when he was training me in horsemanship. Teaching me about the etiquettes of a gentleman. It was long, long ago, like a distant mirage. As if it never happened, yet it seemed like yesterday.

I woke up in the middle of the night, my heart torn apart, similar to a little ice cube sunk in boiling water. A horrible thirst cursed my throat, my forehead dressed with small beads of sweat. My face needed a cold water splash.

 After fighting my lazy self, I finally decided to get up and have, at least, a glass of water.

The kitchen, downstairs, had two doors, one opened inside the house, and the other door opened in the backyard to facilitate roasting in the air.

 Staggering left and right, I walked outside the guest room. My right hand fumbling the wall. Carefully, I descended the stairs like a walking corpse.

It was darker, calmer when I got to the living room, wondering if I am still alive, I bumped into the table. The wool balls fell, scattered around my feet.

 Anna never left her precious things untidied.

Series of loud barking came from the backyard. Molly, the family dog, high alerted. I thought she got provoked by the noise I had made.

However, while drinking the water, I heard another noise, the sound of footsteps, dim but recognizable. Someone is in the courtyard. Someone unknown, a stranger.

Molly's wariness, agitated's state, could never be directed towards a member of the family.

The barking became more and more intense, I opened the door to find silent drops satiating the hard dry soil. I explored with my vision the whereabouts of Molly, afraid to advance in the rain.

The wet hair of the dog dripped a red liquid under the fainted light. Near the back gate, I spotted a moving shadow, elusive, evasive. They disappeared behind the walls in seconds. Yet Molly's frantic rage didn’t stop.

My eyes startled, my ears captured the sound of a falling object. The sudden lightning bolt illuminated the backyard, and I froze at the glimpse of someone's body on the soil. 

The rain started pouring down heavily before the monstrous sound of the thunder shook the air. Masking molly furious barks.

I run toward her, gripped the chain fasting her neck, attempting to distance her from the unidentified body. Possessed, my efforts in restraining her rage went in vain.

The lightning bolt struck a second time, and my heart hopped into a flutter when I recognized the identity of the person who was on the soil.

My hands dropped the chain, my body approached the corpse. Half of the face was buried by the mud, the other half was bloody red. I shook it violently, numerous times to get a response.

 A long, rigid, and thin rod was stuck into the neck. 

Finally, someone arrived at the scene, Molly didn't stop barking and another screaming voice joined her.

When I saw the accusation on Anna's mother's face, I didn't understand.

 The place became brighter; I saw my hands soaked in red blood while one of them holding a large metallic needle, the same one Anna used for knitting.

I looked at Mm Marchetti and I said denying what that look had meant: “No… No, you are wrong…”