The Forty Flowers - By Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

Written By: Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

Category: Horror & Gothic Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the delicate and haunting narrative "The Forty Flowers," Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera captures readers with a tale of enduring devotion set against the mystical backdrop of Sagada. This piece, part of the Horror & Gothic Fiction category, showcases the participant's talent in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Through evocative prose, the story explores themes of love, loss, and the supernatural, all intertwined with the natural beauty and mystery of the Philippine highlands.

About the Work

"The Forty Flowers" weaves a poignant story of love transcending mortality, enveloped in a Gothic ambiance. The narrative is rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth, portraying the steadfast affection of an old couple. The tale masterfully balances the eerie with the tender, leaving readers to ponder the nature of promises and devotion. The atmospheric setting and the use of symbolic flowers heighten the story's emotional impact, making it a memorable piece of Gothic fiction.

The Forty Flowers

Original Submission by Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

The Forty Flowers

There was, in a certain corner of Sagada, where the mountains rose blue and solemn against the sky, a patch of earth so black and generous that the people of the village called it blessed.

It belonged to an old husband and his wife, who had lived upon it longer than most could remember. Their little house stood above the terraces, tucked between pine and stone, where the mornings came wrapped in mist and the evenings arrived early. They had no children of their own, and so, perhaps by some kindness of Providence, the young farmer who worked their fields had become something near enough to a grandson.

He was the favorite of their crop, they would say.

The old woman had a way of saying it as though the wheat itself had chosen him. "Look there," she would tell her husband whenever the young man bent beneath the sun. "That one grows better than the rest."

And the old man would laugh and answer, "Aye. He has more sense than our corn."

After every day's labour, they would bid him come inside. Their little house was never grand, but it was warm in the manner of old houses. The rafters were darkened by years of smoke; woven blankets hung over the backs of wooden chairs; the windows wore thin curtains that stirred whenever the mountain wind found its way through the cracks. There was always something simmering upon the stove. There was always a chair pulled out for him before he could ask. In the colder months, the old woman would throw a blanket over his shoulders and scold him for coming in with damp clothes. In the warmer ones, there was always a glass of water waiting, cold enough to numb his teeth. Sometimes she would press food into his hands before he had even sat down. Sometimes the old man would pour him coffee and ask, as though it were the most important matter in the world, how the fields were faring.

And if the young farmer tried to leave too soon, one of them would always say, "Stay a little while."

So he did.

He loved them dearly. Yet there was one thing he loved most about the old couple: the way they loved one another.

They had been married for more years than the farmer could count, but the old man still behaved as though he had only just been given his bride. Each morning, before the sun had properly risen over the mountains, he would walk the borders of the field and choose a flower. Never the same kind twice. A little violet one day. A yellow marigold the next. Then a sprig of wild lavender, a red poppy, a white daisy, a blue cornflower. Whatever the earth offered him, he took. And every evening, he placed it in his wife's hands.

"For you," he would say.

As though the first flower had not been enough. As though forty years of marriage had not been enough. As though love, if it was true, must be renewed each morning.

The farmer often watched from the doorway. He thought it a beautiful foolishness. He hoped, secretly, that he might one day be loved with such foolishness himself.

Then came the summer of the drought.

The rains failed.

The terraces grew dry beneath the cruel sun. The earth hardened. The rice bowed beneath the heat, and the leaves of the trees curled inward like tired hands. Even the streams that ran down from the mountains seemed to grow quieter. The mornings were no longer softened by rain, and the mist came less often. The whole of Sagada seemed to hold its breath.

The young farmer worked from dawn until dusk, trying to save what little could be saved. His visits to the old couple became fewer. There were days when he passed their house without stopping. Then there were weeks.

Still, whenever he saw the old man walking home at sunset with a flower in his hand, the farmer felt a little peace.

A flower meant they were well.

A flower meant the old woman was waiting by the window.

A flower meant there was still supper on the stove, two chairs beside the table, and two old hearts keeping time beneath the same roof.

So, even when he could not visit, he watched for flowers.

And the old man never failed to bring one home.

Until, one evening, the farmer noticed that he had not seen the old couple for many days.

The work had finally eased. The heat had broken a little. And so he thought, I shall visit them tonight.

He finished his work as the sun was sinking behind the mountains. The last light caught upon the terraces, turning the fields the colour of old brass. He was gathering his tools when he saw the old man.

He was coming from the far end of the field, walking toward the little house.

There was a flower in his hand.

The farmer smiled.

"Good evening!"

The old man did not turn.

"Sir!"

Nothing.

The farmer called again, louder this time.

Still, the old man kept walking.

The farmer supposed that age had finally taken some of the hearing from him. He followed at a distance, smiling to himself. When the old man reached the house, he opened the door and disappeared inside.

The farmer hurried after him.

Then the smell reached him.

It was thick and sweet and rotten.

He stopped dead upon the threshold. For a moment, he could not understand what his nose was telling him. Then came the flies. There were so many of them.

His heart began to beat strangely.

"Sir?"

There was no answer.

The front room was empty. The stove was cold. The chairs sat where they had always sat, but there was dust upon them. A cup remained upon the table, its contents long since dried into a dark ring. One of the old woman's woven shawls still hung beside the door, as though she might return at any moment to retrieve it.

He walked slowly toward the bedroom.

The door was half-open.

He pushed it.

And wished, for the rest of his life, that he had not.

The old couple lay upon their bed.

Or what remained of them did.

Their bodies had been dead for many weeks. The heat had hastened what the earth would have done in time. Their flesh had darkened and fallen away. Worms moved where flesh remained. The room was swollen with the awful sweetness of decay. The old woman's hair, once always neatly tied, lay scattered upon the pillow. The old man's hands rested beside hers.

The farmer stumbled backwards.

He vomited upon the floor.

He covered his mouth, but the sight had already entered him. His eyes filled until he could see nothing clearly. His whole body shook with disgust and horror, and for a moment he could do nothing but stand there, staring at the two people who had once called him their grandson.

He fled the house and called for the authorities with shaking hands.

They came before nightfall.

They searched the house. They asked questions. They covered the bodies. They spoke in low voices about the heat, the drought, the length of time they must have been dead. The farmer answered what he could.

But his mind had already begun to settle upon one terrible question.

If they had been dead all this time... who had been walking home every evening?

He returned to the bedroom only once.

Not because he wished to.

Because he had forgotten something.

Upon the old woman's hands lay a flower.

Fresh.

Its petals were bright. Its stem still held the green of living things.

Beside it lay another.

And another.

And another.

Flowers of every kind.

Violets.

Daisies.

Poppies.

Lavender.

Marigolds.

Cornflowers.

Forty flowers, by the farmer's count.

Forty different mornings.

Forty evenings of a husband keeping a promise that death had not thought to break.

The farmer stood very still.

He thought of the old man walking through the dying fields. He thought of the flower in his hand. He thought of all the evenings he had watched from afar and felt comforted, believing the old couple were safe inside their little house.

And then, strangely, the horror left him.

What remained was grief.

And something softer.

For the first time, he understood that the old woman had not been waiting alone. Nor had the old man been wandering.

He had simply been keeping his old habit.

The earth had taken his body.

It had not taken his devotion.

And so, every evening, he rose from whatever darkness had claimed him, walked the fields as he had done for half a lifetime, chose a flower, and carried it home to his wife.

Perhaps love had made him forget that he was dead.

Perhaps love had made death forget him.

No one in the village ever learned which.

But after that summer, the young farmer kept the old couple's house standing. He tended their fields as best he could. He repaired the broken fence, cleared the weeds from the terraces, and kept the little house from falling into ruin.

And every year, when the first flowers came, he would place one upon their doorstep.

Never the same kind twice.

For some promises, once made in love, are not buried with the ones who made them.

They remain.

They wait.

And sometimes, when the evening mist settles low upon the terraces and the last light slips behind the mountains, the farmer swears he can see an old man walking home in the distance, a flower clasped gently in his hand.

Always another flower.

Always for her.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. Participants from around the world contribute their unique narratives across various genres, showcasing creativity and depth. This competition aims to connect writers and poets, offering them a stage to share their work with a global audience. It fosters a community where storytelling thrives, encouraging participants to explore and express profound themes through the written word.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera for sharing "The Forty Flowers" with us. This hauntingly beautiful piece adds a unique depth to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your contribution enriches the tapestry of stories woven by talented writers worldwide. We look forward to more captivating tales from you in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.