year later.The rose garden at La Maison de la Rose was now open to the public. Travelers came from all over to see the flowers, to walk through the place where history, mystery, and love had grown for generations.
Amelia ran art workshops under the oak tree, helping visitors paint their own roses. Lucien gave tours of the restored house, telling the story of Claire and Thomas, and the miracle of memory.
One quiet afternoon, a letter arrived.
It was old, with faded handwriting and a wax seal that looked like a rose.
Amelia opened it slowly.
To the one who found our love,
If you're reading this, then the garden still lives. Thank you.
We may never know your name, but we know your heart. Because only someone who believes in love without limits could hear the echoes of ours.
You didn't just find our story. You gave it a new ending.
Love again. Bloom again.
And when you do—remember us in the wind, the petals, and the bell's song.
Forever grateful,
Claire & Thomas
Amelia smiled as tears filled her eyes.
She walked out to the rose bush they had planted—the one from the glowing seed.
It now stood taller than any other, its petals soft and deep like velvet.
She placed the letter beneath the roots.
And whispered, "You're home."
As the wind passed through the garden, the bell at Saint Vérène rang once—clear, soft, eternal.
And love, as always, bloomed.
It had been two years since the garden reopened.
Tourists still wandered the winding paths. Lovers still carved their initials into the benches beneath the rose arches. But something had shifted. The story of Claire and Thomas had spread far beyond the village—into books, museums, and quiet corners of the internet.
And then one day, a stranger arrived.
He wore an old-fashioned coat, dusty boots, and a satchel filled with gears and watch parts. He had kind eyes but carried the sadness of someone who had waited too long.
Lucien met him by the garden gate.
"Welcome," he said kindly. "Are you here for the history tour?"
The man smiled faintly. "Not quite. I'm here for a promise."
He pulled out a golden pocket watch. The back was engraved with the letters: T.L.
Lucien's heart skipped. "Thomas Lafleur?"
The man nodded. "He was my great-grandfather. Or… at least, that's what I've always been told. But I've had dreams, ever since I was a boy. Dreams of roses. Of fire. Of a woman I've never met but always loved."
Lucien called for Amelia, who came running from the garden, a canvas still in her hands. When she saw the man, she froze.
They had never met.
But his face…
It was like Thomas's, just slightly changed. Modern. But familiar in the deepest way.
"I think we've been waiting for you," Amelia said softly.
The man stepped forward, looking around.
"This place… I've felt it calling me my whole life."
He walked to the heart of the garden. His pocket watch began to tick louder—though it hadn't worked in years.
Suddenly, the wind picked up. The roses swayed. The church bell rang, even though no one had touched it.
And beneath the roots of the glowing rose bush, a single petal fell.
The man knelt down and picked it up.
It pulsed with warmth.
"I don't know if I'm meant to fix something," he said, looking at Amelia and Lucien, "or if I'm meant to finish it."
Amelia took a step forward. "Maybe you're the bridge. Between what was… and what comes next."
For in that moment, they all felt it.
Claire and Thomas's love hadn't just ended.
It had scattered—like seeds—waiting to grow again in new hearts, new hands, new stories.
And this man?
He was one of them.
A bloom from a forgotten branch.
A heartbeat… returning.