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The cemetery was beautiful; lush greenery surrounded the many graves, and rain was falling overhead. Wild violets were picked from the roadside and a red daisy was left forgotten by some stranger. He pictured his grave strewn with violets and daisies in a deathbed fantasy. He died under a flowered ceiling. She tried to honour his final wish as she placed the flowers upon his final resting place.

Would he know that he’s remembered? Or would he think his name was swept away—writ in water as he once said?

The fountain flowed steadily from the piazza below, but its sound was drowned out by the storm. From his window, she watched the lightning and the rain. She was sitting under a flowered ceiling.

When she left his home, she left a red rose at his doorstep. Despite the ebb and flow of the tourists, it remained there for days.

“Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand

And tears like mine will keep thy memory green.” 

-Oscar Wilde

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