Page 10 of Rose
The long, wild curls William used to love running his fingers through—gone. Cut short into a curly pixie that framed her face in a way that felt sharp, not soft. Like her edges were showing now, no longer hidden behind waves of hair.
Her right arm was covered in ink, a sleeve of tattoos she’d carved into her own skin, chasing a feeling—anyfeeling—even if it was more pain. But the tattoo that meant the most wasn’t her own. It was the one A’Mazi gave her.
The house fire left scars across her body, reminders of that night she could never erase. But the one that gutted her the most stretched across the side of her neck. A’Mazi covered it with a bleeding rose, its thorns curling outward like barbed wire. It wasn’t just art. It was her story. Her grief. Her brokenness.
A rose still trying to bloom through pain.
Recovery wasn’t kind. She’d spent months relearning how to move, how to live. Physical therapy became survival. She lost so much weight after the hospital, her body weak and fragile. But slowly, through running, through workouts, through pushing herself to exhaustion, she built herself back up.
Her toned thighs—scarred but strong—carried her forward. Her stomach, flat and defined, carried the scar of her C-section like a permanent brand of what she lost. Her breasts, her curves, her glow—they all returned.
But no matter what the mirror showed, she didn’t feel beautiful.
She didn’t feel anything.
And today? Today was the cruelest reminder of all.
The anniversary of the day she met and lost her daughter in the same breath.
Willow Miani Rose-Davis.
A name that lived on a birth certificate and a death certificate... but never on a whispered lullaby. Never in a first word. Never in a giggle filling these quiet streets.
Today marked one year since she should’ve been holding her baby girl in her arms.
But instead, she walked these streets with a leash in one hand and emptiness in the other.
Still breathing. Still broken.
Still numb.
The sun was just starting to rise, casting streaks of gold across the quiet streets as Ahzii made her way back to her apartment. The park she ran in was only a few blocks away, and Ace stayed close to her side the whole way, loyal and steady.
Sweat clung to her skin, making her brown complexion glow softly beneath the growing light, but she barely noticed.
Around her, the world was waking up. Runners passed with soft nods, kids walked hand-in-hand with their parents and grandparents, and strangers gathered incoffee shops, sharing laughter and quiet morning conversations. Even the distant wails of toddlers protesting the morning couldn’t pull a smile from her lips.
That part of her—the goofy, lighthearted woman who once found joy in the small things—burned away in that fire beside William.
And what the fire didn’t destroy, grief buried the day they carried her baby out of the hospital in silence.
After a few more blocks, she finally reached her building—a sleek, luxury high-rise just outside the city limits. Safe. Quiet. Private.
Exactly what she needed.
She pushed through the glass doors, offering a faint smile to the security guard at the front desk, who greeted her like clockwork. He didn’t ask questions. He never did.
Stepping into the elevator, she hit the button for the 43rd floor and watched the numbers climb, her mind quiet, her chest heavy.
When the doors slid open, she walked to her door, unlocked it, and went into the cool stillness of her apartment.
Ace trotted ahead as she unclipped his leash, heading straight for his water bowl, gulping it down like he hadn’t had a drop in hours.
“You’re notthatthirsty,” she murmured with a faint chuckle, the sound foreign on her lips.
The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in warm sunlight, revealing the Miami skyline in all its beauty. The city stretched wide and endless, glowing beneath the morning rays.
Her living room, dressed in soft whites, warm browns, and beiges, flowed seamlessly into an open kitchen with rich wooden cabinets and white marble countertops.
