A mysterious rose, a box of chocolates, and a lunch date with a ghost—would you risk it all for a taste of the unknown?
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign outside flickered, casting a rhythmic, bruised purple glow across the frosted glass of my office door. It was February 14th—a day for rubes and romantics, neither of which I’d been in a long time.
The messenger looked like he’d crawled out of a storm drain, but the delivery was pure class. A single red rose, its petals so dark they were almost black, and a gold-foiled box of handmade chocolates that probably cost more than my weekly retainer. I flicked the card open with a letter opener that felt too heavy in my hand.
“See you at the French Bakery for lunch.”
No signature. No perfume. Just cold, elegant ink on cream cardstock.
My stomach did a slow roll. I wasn’t “involved.” My last flame had gone out in a hail of gunfire and bad debts three years ago. Since then, the only thing I’d shared a bed with was a Smith & Wesson and a bottle of cheap rye.
I looked at the rose. It wasn’t just a flower; it was a beckoning finger from a ghost. I knew every regular in this city, and none of them gave gifts without a hook hidden inside. Was this a peace offering from the Syndicate, or a lure from a dead man’s brother?
The French Bakery sat on the corner of 4th—wide windows, easy for a sniper, but even easier for a vanishing act. I reached into my desk drawer, my fingers brushing the cold steel of my snub-nose. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs—half-starved for the attention, half-paralyzed by the threat. I grabbed my trench coat.
I had to know if I was walking toward a kiss or a casket.
