He has a rose in his favorite book. It is now dry and fragile, despite all the trouble he went through to preserve it. On a less depressing note, the chemical has just barely retained the rose’s crimson hue, so the flower still hints at the glory of its blossom. To him, this rose is an old lady who had once been young and beautiful.
This rose is still a gift to him. Yes, it had been a spontaneous action--picked in front of his eyes and given to him, but it is a gift nevertheless. Thirty Summers ago, in a vast garden that is now obsolete, this little rose was given to him, and it has been a token of everything he values. The rose and his memories--the two things he values more than his own life.
He sits down in front of the fire in his self-made cottage. Once rested comfortably by the bright and warm fireplace, he opens his favorite book and beautiful memories flow through his mind like a movie from heaven--an amazing tale of a beauty that lasted two years of his life and left eternal grief.
He takes in the words like it is his first time. Perhaps it is a first time, since his yearning is different each time he reads. He brushes the yellowing pages lovingly, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, but his eyes slowly begins to dampen.
  He can still see the old days, when the mansion had been occupied by that rich family and their servants. The place had been the sight of the town, as out of place as a castle amidst huts and teepees. The pictures of the lively garden and the shiny, golden-yellow house are vivid and fresh in his mind, with every window polished, as though no tragedy would ever befall the household. The flowers are blooming forever for him, and just for a moment, joy and beauty seems to be everlasting.
But the beauty of the architecture is not what he seeks. So, his mind zooms in, and he can suddenly see himself, except this version of him had none of the wrinkles that he now has. In his left hand, he nervously clutches his hat. In his right hand is a book--yes, this particular book that he reads now. What had he been back then? A teacher? Yes, a teacher. He remembers trying to teach this book to the only daughter of that immensely wealthy family. She was barely a year younger than him. He had been a young man himself then, barely a legitimate adult, and it was his first job. She used to call him “the homeschool tutor barely older than her”, but now that he is looking back, he felt like he was just somebody to keep her company while her rich parents enjoyed themselves. They couldn’t possibly expect someone her age to really teach her anything.
The image of his “student” fills his mind, and suddenly, neither the book nor the rose is the his center. His life has become a story itself; by some miracle, the two of them rapidly fell in love, and this feeling of loving and being loved back had always chased away all his dissatisfactions. It still works the same wonder now, neutralizing his grief. Oh, how clearly he remembers the “rising actions” of their story! Every awkward silence that soon evolved into a fit of laughter, every stupid thing he had done that ended up pleasing her—every waking moment with her is ornate with details, fresher than memories of yesterday’s meal.
He utters a chuckle as he recalls the that Summer day. The roses had been growing everywhere in the garden--the dazzling scarlet and charming fragrance made the back yard as gorgeous as Olympus. As they walked, she let go of his hand and ran to pick a rose--the most complete and  perfect one she came across that day--and pinned it to his uncomfortable new suit. They both laughed at her outburst of affection, and embraced each other. Somehow, the embrace turned into a kiss. It was quick and inexperienced, yet he remembers it as the happiest moment of his life. On that lovely Summer day, the two finally faced their true feelings.
Then, there was the epilogue of her life. How abruptly had sickness come between them! They always worried that her rich, arrogant parents would not approve of them, and life gave them a hard lesson about the dangers of getting ahead of themselves. Such irony--the parents begged her to recover, and promised that if she would please stay with them, please live on in this mortal world, she could be with whomever she loved. The rich family paid everyone they could; doctors, shamans, even some obscure voodoo vagabond. No one could save her. For once in their luxurious lives, their previous riches failed them. Slowly but surely, the call of Heaven overrode all mortal efforts, and eternal sleep grasped her. In the end, she was buried, wept for, and then left behind by her rich family, with the excuse that seeing her grave would make their sorrows worse. 
He can feel two streams of mourning down his age-roughened cheeks now. He always gets so sentimental when he thinks about the past, and he chides himself for it on the entire way out of his cottage. He brings the rose and the book, because after all, they are his most valued possessions. He can afford walking with full hands if it means having his treasure with him.
His little evening walk eventually leads him to a tombstone in the corner of an old garden. The garden is an aged saint as well--just like his rose. It is but a shadow, a ghost, if you will, of its former magnificence. He sits down in front of the tombstone and wipes off some dust. Speaking a few sweet words of greeting, he slowly starts to read the book out loud, the way he has every other evening for the last thirty years.