Patrick was late, as usual. Every time he had to go to a meeting as part of a mediation on a project X or Y, he went backwards. As if his brain was trying hard to deprogram the actions he made every morning. No, he was not motivated to attend this umpteenth meeting, where we would discuss the distribution of tasks within his team only to backtrack a few days later at the express request of the hierarchy of the gas machine which was supposed to be a business office. Lucas was therefore on autopilot that morning, provided that there was a pilot in the plane of his head, empty of dreams and desires. And the monotony of his daily life had not improved since his girlfriend had abandoned the ship a few weeks earlier.

While he was fussing over his growing beard, trying not to cut himself, the doorbell rang. However, he had not ordered brunch this morning, which is what every New York golden-boy does before his morning gym... No, no brunch this morning but a bouquet of roses at the foot of his door, accompanied, one has to admit, with a pestilential odor. He was not an expert on the subject, but he could still recognize their particular shape with the pointed petals. It was familiar to him because her mother was fond of them and had, as far back as he could remember, always ordered this type of rose to decorate the table in the huge living room of the family loft, which overlooked the Empire State building.

Yet, their color seemed strange to him. The roses were a dull red, as if they had already reached an advanced stage of wilting, even though everything in their appearance suggested that they had just been picked. Besides, who could possibly send him roses ? These kinds of things were done to women, not to men, and even less to wealthy men who work for a multinational company...

Despite the bizarre appearance of these flowers which seemed to stink of death, it was his curiosity that won out. He leaned over the bouquet to perhaps discover a card or something that could give him a clue as a reason for this "gift". Digging his fingers into the flowers, he discovered, to his horror, that a mass of flies were swarming between the stems, accompanied by their offspring, the larvae. Everyone seemed to delight in these flowers without him really understanding why... Since when did flies eat flowers ?

Before understanding, at the sight of his red fingers, that the flowers had been sprayed with blood... Hence the pestilential smell and their fresh appearance. A card fell on the landing: “The number of roses stand for the number of years lost with you.”