The roses were in a state of rigor mortis, the petals lifeless yet still plump with color. They crouched down and picked up one of the corpses. The petals clung tight to the flower’s pistil as they laid it flat in their hand.

The thorns were so dull that the roses could be held with the gentlest of fingers. The leaves were riddled with holes from where Japanese beetles had been feasting for days. The stem was mangled with cankers caused by a fungal infection.

They reached into their gardening apron and pulled out a small book. It was bound in leather and had the words “Pressed Flowers” branded on the cover. They opened the book, laid the corpse in between two pages, and firmly shut it.

They continued to prune the bushes, throwing the remaining roses into a compost pile. This would feed an ecosystem until the summer months came.