Page 4 of Rose

R - Ruin

“What’s left when love burns you alive?”

One Year Later

The sky still wore its dark, quiet robe at six a.m. in Miami, Florida.

The streets were nearly empty, save for a few coffee shops and donut spots flickering awake, offering warmth to the city’s earliest souls.

Even the birds were still asleep, their songs yet to fill the air.

The moon lingered faintly overhead, refusing to let go.

The breeze was cool, brushing against her skin. But Ahzii hadn’t felt a chill in months. All she knew was heat—the searing kind that came from living inside your own personal hell.

Her feet pounded against the concrete, each step sharp, fast, relentless. To the world, she looked like just another runner getting in an early workout. But this wasn’t about fitness.

This was escape. She wasn’t running for health. She was running from ghosts. From the life she lost. From the fire that destroyed everything she ever loved.

The Ahzii Rose of a year ago was gone. Dead.

Her identity, her love, her light—burned alive in that house alongside her husband. And if hell hadn’t finished with her that night, it came for her days later.

She’d woken up in the hospital with scars and stitches, only to be told the one thing she fought to hold onto—her baby girl—never took a single breath.

No first cry. No heartbeat. No life.

Just silence.

She remembered holding her... cold and still... the last piece of William, gone before she could say hello.

If A’Mazi hadn’t charged into that burning house, risking his own life to drag her unconscious body out before it collapsed, she’d be dead too. And part of her wished he hadn’t saved her. Part of her wished she’d died there... beside them. In Heaven. With them.

But life, cruel as ever, forced her to wake up. Forced her to live in a world where she watched her husband die in front of her... and their baby days later.

Now every morning, she woke up to an empty house where laughter should’ve lived. Where chubby toddler feet should’ve pitter-pattered across the floor. Where William’s arms should’ve been wrapped around her, warm and safe.

Instead, there was nothing. Just silence. Just pain. Every day was hell.

But it was the only life she had left .

Ahzii gripped the leash tighter in her hand, her knuckles pale against the thick leather.

Ace, her Rottweiler, trotted beside her with steady, protective steps.

A’Mazi had given him to her, knowing how much she needed something— someone —to fill the gaping hole in her chest. And Ace did just that.

In his own way, the big, loyal dog guarded what little of her heart she had left.

But no matter how fiercely he guarded it, some pieces were already gone.

So much of her had changed.

The long, wild curls William used to love running his fingers through—gone. Cut short into a curly pixie that framed her face in a way that felt sharp, not soft. Like her edges were showing now, no longer hidden behind waves of hair.

Her right arm was covered in ink, a sleeve of tattoos she’d carved into her own skin, chasing a feeling— any feeling—even if it was more pain. But the tattoo that meant the most wasn’t her own. It was the one A’Mazi gave her.

The house fire left scars across her body, reminders of that night she could never erase.

But the one that gutted her the most stretched across the side of her neck.

A’Mazi covered it with a bleeding rose, its thorns curling outward like barbed wire.

It wasn’t just art. It was her story. Her grief. Her brokenness.

A rose still trying to bloom through pain.

Recovery wasn’t kind. She’d spent months relearning how to move, how to live. Physical therapy became survival. She lost so much weight after the hospital, her body weak and fragile. But slowly, through running, through workouts, through pushing herself to exhaustion, she built herself back up.

Her toned thighs—scarred but strong—carried her forward. Her stomach, flat and defined, carried the scar of her C-section like a permanent brand of what she lost. Her breasts, her curves, her glow—they all returned.

But no matter what the mirror showed, she didn’t feel beautiful.

She didn’t feel anything.

And today? Today was the cruelest reminder of all.

The anniversary of the day she met and lost her daughter in the same breath.

Willow Miani Rose-Davis.

A name that lived on a birth certificate and a death certificate... but never on a whispered lullaby. Never in a first word. Never in a giggle filling these quiet streets.

Today marked one year since she should’ve been holding her baby girl in her arms.

But instead, she walked these streets with a leash in one hand and emptiness in the other.

Still breathing. Still broken.

Still numb.

The sun was just starting to rise, casting streaks of gold across the quiet streets as Ahzii made her way back to her apartment. The park she ran in was only a few blocks away, and Ace stayed close to her side the whole way, loyal and steady.

Sweat clung to her skin, making her brown complexion glow softly beneath the growing light, but she barely noticed.

Around her, the world was waking up. Runners passed with soft nods, kids walked hand-in-hand with their parents and grandparents, and strangers gathered in coffee shops, sharing laughter and quiet morning conversations.

Even the distant wails of toddlers protesting the morning couldn’t pull a smile from her lips.

That part of her—the goofy, lighthearted woman who once found joy in the small things—burned away in that fire beside William.

And what the fire didn’t destroy, grief buried the day they carried her baby out of the hospital in silence.

After a few more blocks, she finally reached her building—a sleek, luxury high-rise just outside the city limits. Safe. Quiet. Private.

Exactly what she needed.

She pushed through the glass doors, offering a faint smile to the security guard at the front desk, who greeted her like clockwork. He didn’t ask questions. He never did.

Stepping into the elevator, she hit the button for the 43rd floor and watched the numbers climb, her mind quiet, her chest heavy.

When the doors slid open, she walked to her door, unlocked it, and went into the cool stillness of her apartment.

Ace trotted ahead as she unclipped his leash, heading straight for his water bowl, gulping it down like he hadn’t had a drop in hours.

“You’re not that thirsty,” she murmured with a faint chuckle, the sound foreign on her lips.

The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in warm sunlight, revealing the Miami skyline in all its beauty. The city stretched wide and endless, glowing beneath the morning rays.

Her living room, dressed in soft whites, warm browns, and beiges, flowed seamlessly into an open kitchen with rich wooden cabinets and white marble countertops.

The apartment was two stories, three bedrooms—far too big for one person, but she needed the space. Needed the silence.

Her bedroom upstairs held her safe place, her master bathroom where she could cry unseen. The guest room remained untouched. The third room belonged to Ace—his bed, his toys, his refuge.

She loved this place not for its beauty, but for its safety. Twenty-four-hour security. Keycard access to her floor. High enough off the ground to make her feel unreachable.

After what happened, she couldn’t bring herself to live in a house again. Too many walls. Too much silence. Too many shadows waiting to burn. But here, in the sky, she could breathe.

Or at least, pretend to.

Ahzii climbed the stairs to her bedroom, the familiar quiet wrapping around her like a blanket she couldn’t shake off. Her room was soft and muted—shades of warm brown, monotones that matched her numbness.

She peeled off the sweat-soaked Nike tights and thermal shirt, tossing them aside before catching her reflection in the full-length mirror.

For months, she avoided mirrors. Couldn’t face the woman staring back at her.

Even now, she hesitated .

The tattoos covered most of it—her neck, her arm, her thigh—all marked with ink to drown out the scars from the fire. A bleeding rose across her throat, an intricate design down her sleeve, a large floral piece wrapping her thigh.

But some things couldn’t be covered.

The burns still crept along her inner thighs, the angry scars that even ink couldn’t hide. The c-section scar, resting low on her stomach—a cruel reminder of where her baby lived and died. Her golden brown eyes, once filled with light and laughter, stared back hollow and tired.

The real scars weren’t just on her skin. They lived in her chest, carved deep into her heart, where love used to bloom. She didn’t recognize herself anymore. The woman William used to kiss, the mother her baby girl never got to see—gone.

She tore her gaze away and moved to the bathroom, its clean white and gold decor doing little to soften the ache inside her.

The shower was quick, practical. No long, soothing escape. Just heat washing over scars, steam rising in the silence.

Summer in Miami was unforgiving, so she threw on a graphic tee and a pair of jean shorts that hugged her frame. She slid her freshly polished toes into her Birkenstocks, tousled her pixie cut, and left the room.

When she came downstairs, she froze for a second.

Kyre was there. Sitting on the couch, head buried in her phone like she belonged there—which she did.

Ahzii hadn’t even heard her come in. But Kyre had a key. Emergency contact, best friend, lifeline. She came and went as she pleased.

The soft creak of Ahzii’s steps made Kyre look up. A smile broke across her face, small but warm.

“Hey boo,” Kyre said, standing up and pulling her into a hug without hesitation.

Ahzii melted into it, wrapping her arms around her best friend, breathing in her steady presence.

When they pulled apart, Ahzii saw the tears Kyre was holding back. Barely.

Kyre had been there for everything.