White rose

 "You know what, Mom?" Jenny said, looking up from her bowl of cereal. "I saw the weirdest thing yesterday."

Her mother, busy with the morning paper, barely glanced over the rim of her glasses. "Oh? What was it?"

"A bird," Jenny began, her eyes wide with wonder. "It was white, as white as fresh snow. It just sat there, staring at me, like it had something to say."

Her mother's interest piqued, she folded the newspaper. "A white bird? That's not something you see every day."

Jenny nodded, her spoon clinking against the side of the bowl. "It was so pretty, but it looked sad. Or maybe it was just tired."

The conversation lingered in the kitchen air as they went about their morning routines. Jenny's mother, Rachel, couldn't shake the image of the unusual bird from her mind. It was a peculiar start to the day, but she had her own worries to attend to. Her job at the local library was demanding, and the upcoming exhibition of historical artifacts required her full attention.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Rachel arrived at work, the quiet town still waking up around her. She walked through the cobblestone streets, the chill of autumn hinting at the winter to come. The library, a stately old building with ivy-covered walls, stood tall and proud in the early light.

As Rachel unlocked the heavy oak doors, she couldn't help but think of the white rose that had been delivered to her desk the previous evening. It was an anonymous gesture, but she had a suspicion it was from her secret admirer—the mysterious person who had been leaving her roses for the past few weeks. She had found the first one, a deep red, the day she had decided to take on the ambitious project. Since then, she had found roses in various shades of white, each one more intriguing than the last.

The library was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Rachel's footsteps echoed through the aisles as she made her way to her office. The smell of aged books and the dusty silence was comforting. She had always loved the feeling of being surrounded by stories, living in a world where secrets whispered from the pages.

Her desk was cluttered with notes and catalogs, but the white rose stood out like a beacon. Rachel picked it up, studying the delicate petals. It was perfect, not a single blemish or brown edge in sight. She took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent, feeling a peculiar warmth spread through her chest.

The day ahead was busy, filled with meetings and preparations for the exhibition. But the memory of the bird and the rose lingered, a gentle mystery that danced on the edge of her consciousness.