Agent 17 Red Rose Now

Agent 17 walked through the greenhouse as if moving through a cathedral. Sunlight pooled on the glazed tiles, warming the air until it smelled faintly of earth and something sweeter—promises, perhaps, or old stories. Around him, rows of roses stood like sentinels: buds clustered tight as secrets, petals unfurling in spirals that caught the light and kept it. One bush in particular drew his steps: a red rose, impossibly deep as a spilled coin, perched on a stem scarred by thorns.