On a serene Saturday afternoon, Henry passed across the garden to reach his house when he encountered roses in bloom on the side of the road.
Perhaps it was the tranquillity of the atmosphere, or the pastel sunbeams hovering above the grass that enticed Henry to come closer and inhale their sweet perfume. He had sat next to a tree, leaning his back against the trunk when he got up and decided to find another place to read. His book still opened, he glanced at the landscape and two lovers hiding before a shed. He could hear birds chirping and the heat swathing his body with warmth, delicately caressing his skin with a thin layer of comfort.
The sweet perfume reminded him of his childhood, when he was running wild through the meadow next to his home. He remembered hiding behind the bushes, laying on his back, staring at the sky. The fragrance of the red flowers embalmed his face, travelled from his nose down to his heart.
Today, these souvenirs rebound with nostalgia and melancholy. As Henry leaves with apprehension the bush of roses, he smiles to himself pensively.