Years later, tourists visit the site. Someone built a fence around the motel. There’s a plaque now.


They say roses grow wild in the cracks of the pavement—bloody red, year-round. No one planted them.


Locals leave offerings—black gloves, photographs, a single cigarette, a bottle of bourbon.


And sometimes, couples in love—young, reckless, wide-eyed—come just to stand where they stood.


To feel the chill.


To wonder what it means to love someone so much...


That you'd die just to prove it.