Hope Brown nearly cried when she had received word that the Revolution had been won. Not because of freedom from Britain, but because her love, Cyrus, would return. He had been stripped from her like petals from a flower as winter came and choked the life out of the world by the war. But now spring had come. She ran to retrieve her mother's wedding dress that she had been saving for this moment.

Hope and Cyrus had fallen in love as tensions rose between the Colonies and Great Britain. As militias were formed and protests took place, they held secret meetings, oblivious to the ignition of rebellion the fledgling nation had lit. When he had been sent off to fight with the Minute Men, they made a vow to each other: the moment this God forsaken war ended, they'd meet at the church to get married.

As she raced to the church, however, she found no sight of her beloved, but she thought nothing of it. Perhaps he was taking care of some last minute business. She paced the halls, waiting, bouquet of scarlet roses swinging with her hand.

Hours passed, and she had sat in one of the pews, waiting. Their preacher solemnly walked to her, looking down. "Hope, my dear, I have terrible news."

She stood at once, meeting the melancholy eyes of the holy man. "Yes?" He placed his hand over hers, still clutching the roses. "Cyrus did not return from the war. He died protecting his men from a Hessian soilder. You have my full condolences."

Hope froze. "That's foolishness!" She exclaimed. "My Cyrus is coming for me! He's just...running a little late."

The preacher handed her a piece of parchment, on which the details of Cyrus' death were written. She simply gave a dry laugh. "Try and scare the bride on her wedding day, what a cruel trick!" She couldn't see the obvious, or perhaps blocked them out forcefully for a shred of childish optimism. Cyrus was coming for her. She knew it.

Days came and went, and Hope wandered the halls of the old church. The bouquet never left her hand, and she never changed from her wedding dress. As Sunday came, she stood in the back, listening, flowers in hand, garbed in flowing white. The preacher sighed as he looked back at her. He'd given up trying to tell her the truth. She refused to cease waiting, for food, for sleep, for any force. "Cyrus is coming", she repeated to herself. "Cyrus is coming."

Soon, the days got longer, and Hope grew weaker. It's true, however, that the wedding dress never left her person, and the bouquet never hit the floor until she dropped with it. She was found by the same preacher, who knew already that she was too stubborn to accept the facts.

Even still, Hope wasn't truly dead, according to the people of the town. She still wanders the town, bouquet in her hands, white wedding dress cascading, repeating the phrase she never stopped believing in: "Cyrus is coming."