I pulled my hand back.
It wasn’t a thorn.
Wedged among the fresh roses was something yellow and crumpled.
Paper.
I eased it free.
It wasn’t a thorn.
It was a flower, folded badly from faded yellow paper. One side leaned farther out than the other, and the stem had been reinforced with a narrow strip of brittle tape.
I almost laughed at how ugly it was.
Then I saw a letter written near the bottom.
J.