The sun was going to sleep. It was the only company the wanderer had for what felt like an eternity. He bent down, lanky and twisted, grabbing each boot, struggling to lift them out of the muck. The sweat on his brow had begun to mingle with the rain, running down his forehead, and slipping off the tip of his nose. By his side, he clutched a pair of thick brown leather satchels, stuffed with books and letters.

He shut his eyes, trying to distract himself from the pain. Happy memories that faded with each passing day—a dusky tavern, an icy pint of ale between his palms. He regaled the patrons with fantastical stories about wizards, dragons, and kings. And he watched his father, a shadowy form leaning against the back wall, with a faint smile across his face.

The wanderer wanted to cry, but couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he strayed from his path. Before he found himself standing in the middle of a thicket of roses. A sea of coral reflected the cerulean of the waking moon back at him. It encircled a twilit cavern. And inside, a massive dark shape shifted on the floor before uttering a breath in a low and raspy tone.

“Have you come to finish the job?” The cavern walls shivered. It was a giant. Though, it was hard to tell while it lay on the stone floor, staining the ground with a crimson hue.

“What happened?” the wanderer asked, not even realizing he was speaking aloud.

The giant coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Villagers,” he said, “who wanted to rid themselves of a dangerous beast.”

The giant’s body looked like a piece of meat, stabbed with a fork over and over. His hands lay limply by his side. “So, go on,” the giant continued. “Finish it.”

The wanderer knelt by the giant, listening to each shallow breath. 

“That’s not why I’m here,” he whispered. “I needed a safe place to stay.” He thought about the irony. Fearing the monsters that went prowling in the night, only to find out that it was people like him who were the real monsters.

The giant sighed. “As you can see, I will be of no threat to you.”

The wanderer rose back to his feet, unsure of what to say or do. So he just shuffled to the opposite side of the cave, and took a seat by a smoldering torch. He unpacked his bedroll, some blankets, and a small pile of books. His eyes flitted across each page, but nothing made sense to him anymore. All he could think about was the soul in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” The wanderer felt his voice fracturing, as he struggled to form the words.

The giant looked over at him and smiled. “Don’t be. Where I’m going, I can be with my roses forever.” He glanced at blanket of moonlit blossoms.

“What will happen to them when you’re gone?” the wanderer asked.

A tear slid down the giant’s cheek. He didn’t answer. “What should I call you, wanderer?”

“Will—William.”

“It’s nice to meet you, sweet William. I’m An’dur.”

Will remained silent as he watched another tear fall. 

“William?” An’dur tried to lift his arm, gesturing toward him. “Could you read to me for a while?”

Will looked down at the book in his hands—an epic about a reluctant hero who falls in love with a vampire and saves the world. It wasn’t the best literature. But it was one of his father’s favorites.

He started reading, mesmerized by the flickering embers bouncing off the pages. He paused after a few chapters, glancing up to see the giant, with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. 

“An’dur?” Will watched the sleeping giant slowly open his eyes.

“Could you… bring me one of my roses?”

“Of course.”

“And the stars?”

“The… stars?” 

An’dur’s smile faded. “I can’t see the stars from here.”

Will thought for a moment, and then reached out, squeezing the giant’s palm. “Hold on, don’t you go anywhere. I’ll be back soon.”

He grabbed the torch, along with his bag, and sprinted out of the cave toward a patch of iridescent blooms. He gently plucked a violet rose from its stem, and held it in his hand.

His father loved roses, too.

It was his dream to grow them. But in Will’s family, dreams had a tendency to wither and die. 

He remembered what it was like to be a hopeful, young boy. His father was always there for him. He went to all of his shows. He carried him when he was hurt. He read to him when he was sick. He even remembered going on horseback with him during foggy mornings, so they could catch clouds in a jar.

Will tucked the rose into the front of his vest and reached into his bag, pulling out a small glass jar. And then he danced. He danced through fields of fireflies—catching stars, watching the glass fill up with the glittering night sky. 

But when he headed back—all he had were the stars, and a rose in his pocket for company.

He knelt beside An’dur. His jaw frozen. His chest still. Will wanted to cry, but couldn’t. He slid the rose into the book he was reading and placed it gently into the palm of his hand. And he lay down beside him, and opened the jar.

The embers he followed here were starting to fade. A faint angelic glow casting shadows on the far wall. He watched the fireflies dance across the ceiling, and he remembered his father and the sweet giant of the flowers.

Both kind. Both misunderstood. Both with their roses forever.

And he finally started to cry.

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This story is dedicated to my father, who passed away from Leukemia in August 2017.