He reached out for his old fashioned spectacles resting on the side table with his trembling hand. He wore them and gawked at the ancient clock. It was time, he knew, so he grabbed his walking stick and ambled with his exhausted feet down the boulevard. He stopped by to buy a rose and continued strolling. Soon, he reached the rendezvous, where she had been waiting for him. He knelt down, gifted her the rose and smiled as a tear dripped down his wrinkled cheek. Thirty years, thirty roses and yet not a word from her. This time, he hoped that she would speak or even whisper, but how could she? Her name was engraved on a tombstone, just the way it was engraved on his heart.