Ryan’s crimson roses always bloomed in May—May, not November, when his mother Rose died. Planted in his childhood garden, they symbolized life’s persistence despite death.
Now, 26‑year‑old Ryan tends a single rose pot on his windowsill—soil mixed with his mother’s ashes. When his father, Larry, calls claiming he’s ill and needs a few days at Ryan’s place, Ryan reluctantly agrees, balancing duty and grief.
Larry’s visit starts awkwardly but soon turns sour: he lies, sneaking out for dinner and outings, forcing Ryan’s resentment to boil over. A confrontation erupts when Larry accidentally knocks over the rose pot—symbolic of shattering Ryan’s connection to his mother. Ryan angrily demands he leave, heartbroken by his father’s thoughtlessness.
Years later, Ryan finishes a novel—about loss, forgiveness, and family—moving to a new apartment with a balcony full of roses from the salvaged, ash‑rich soil. When he learns of Larry’s fatal heart attack, he writes him a letter: he can’t attend the funeral yet, but he’s learning to forgive. In the spring rain, new roses bloom, and Ryan finally begins to heal—his mother’s love now rooted in him, his father, and the quiet rituals of his life.