It was a peculiar place to leave a single yellow rose. On a stone bridge, built over a small valley, in the middle of a hiking trail. The trail was a part of an old estate that was always well kept. The yellow stood out against the gray stones and the brown bark of the trees. I never saw the rose bush, but I suppose it wasn’t too far away. As I sat on a bench set across from where the flower was, I grew curious about how it got there. Maybe it was given from one person to another, as a statement of their friendship. Or maybe it was picked by an earlier hiker, because the color made them smile. Before I continued on the path I thought about taking it, but for how out of place it seemed it did not belong anywhere else. It was meant to be there, just as I was meant to see it.