The Last Petal

The night Marta died, the air in our cottage on the edge of the marsh turned thick with the scent of lilies. Not the wild ones that grow by the water—those have a sharp, clean sweetness—but the heavy, cloying perfume of a funeral parlor. I’d come home from the cannery, my boots still wet with brine, and found her slumped in her armchair, a book open in her lap, her glasses askew. Her hand was cold when I touched it, and I knew before the EMS arrived that she was gone.

I stood by the door as they worked, and the smell got into my clothes, into my mouth. I remember saying to the paramedic, a young man with tired eyes, ‘Now I know why they fill the rooms with flowers. It’s to cover up the other smell, but death itself—death smells like this.’ He didn’t look at me. None of them did. They just carried her out on the stretcher, her gray hair a wisp against the white sheet, and the door clicked shut.

After they left, I went around the house opening every window. The screens were dusty, and the marsh air seeped in—damp, earthy, alive. But the lily scent lingered, clinging to the curtains, to the wool blanket Marta had knitted, to the pages of the book she’d been reading. I sat on the couch, the one she’d bought at an auction years ago, and listened to the house settle. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. And then, with a sharp crack, the entire set of encyclopedias Marta had loved—the ones she’d bought volume by volume from a door-to-door salesman—toppled from the top shelf and spilled across the floor.

I didn’t move. I stared at the scattered volumes, the alphabet splayed like broken teeth. Marta had always said, ‘If you ever need to know anything, it’s in those books.’ I remember saying, out loud, ‘I know, Marta. Goodbye.’ The words felt heavy, final. The room went quiet again.

At 8 AM, I called the cannery and told them I wouldn’t be in. My voice sounded strange, hollow. I hung up and looked at the encyclopedias still on the floor. That’s when I noticed one volume was open, face down, at a page I’d never read: under ‘F’—‘Feverfew.’ A plant, the entry said, used in old remedies to ward off lingering spirits. I laughed, a dry, broken sound, and shut the book. But the page had been marked with a dried petal, white and brittle, and it crumbled to dust in my fingers.

The sun rose higher, but the cottage stayed cool. I tried to clean up the books, but each time I bent to pick one up, the lily smell grew stronger, as if it were coming from the pages themselves. By noon, I’d given up. I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes. In the silence, I heard a faint rustling, like pages turning, and the soft footfall of someone walking on the floorboards above—but there was no upstairs, only the loft we never used. I opened my eyes. The book I’d closed was open again, to the same page, and the petal was whole once more.

I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t leave. The next day, the marsh fog rolled in thick, and the windows I’d opened refused to close, no matter how I pushed. The smell of lilies grew so strong I could taste it, and I found myself whispering to the empty chairs, to the cold hearth, to the encyclopedias, ‘I’m still here.’ The rustling stopped. The fog pressed against the glass. And in the mirror by the door, I saw a figure standing behind me—a woman in a faded floral dress, her face blurred, holding a single white flower. I turned, but no one was there. Only the petal, now on the floor, leading a trail to the door.

I followed it, step by step, out onto the porch. The marsh was silver and still. The petal lay at the edge of the wooden steps, and beyond, the path that Marta and I had walked for forty years disappeared into the reeds. I picked it up. It was warm, like living flesh. I heard Marta’s voice, not in my ear but in my bones, say, ‘Come.’ And I knew then that the smell of flowers was not death’s covering, but its call. I stepped off the porch, and the marsh closed around me. The last thing I saw was the cottage window, where a white curtain waved, as if in farewell. The petal in my hand burned. And then there was only the scent of lilies, filling the world.