In the Kashan oasis of central Iran, every April, the rose valley on the edge of the desert is blanketed in a pink cloud. Eighty-year-old Grandpa Ahmad always says these roses are the "time messengers" between him and his late wife Fatima.

Sixty years ago, young Ahmad was a wandering spice merchant. During a desert crossing, his camel caravan was caught in a sandstorm, leaving them with little food or water. As he collapsed delirious behind a sand dune, a sweet fragrance suddenly tickled his nose — it was a cluster of roses blooming tenaciously in a rock crevice, their petals still dotted with morning dew.

Following the scent, he found a hidden oasis, where a small house belonged to Fatima’s family, who were skilled in distilling rose essential oil. Fatima’s father dabbed his chapped lips with rose oil, while Fatima brought him goat’s milk mixed with rose honey. "This is the desert’s gift," Fatima smiled, the thorns on her fingertips glinting in the sun. "The drier the land, the more roses learn to cherish water."

After recovering, Ahmad stayed to learn the "language of roses" from Fatima: dew-kissed buds must be picked before sunrise; the distillation fire should burn as steady as a heartbeat; and the finest oil must be collected at dawn on the seventh day. When that rose season ended, he proposed to Fatima with his first batch of hand-distilled oil, its bottle carved with Persian words: "My life is a desert, you are my oasis."

Together they planted more roses along the desert edge. Fatima said rose roots could lock in moisture, slowly turning desert into oasis. Each blooming season, they gave oil to herders and travelers, saying, "The desert is never fearsome. As long as there are roses in your heart, there is always hope."

Ten years ago, Fatima passed away peacefully on a rose-blooming morning. Ahmad buried her silver distillation spoon under the roses and kept tending their valley. Now his grandchildren have learned to pick and distill too; his little granddaughter always dabs the first drop of new oil on his handkerchief: "Grandma said this is the roses telling our story."

Last spring, after a rare rainstorm, several unseen white roses sprouted deep in the valley. Ahmad held their petals and wept — these were the roses Fatima had dreamed of cultivating. Wind rustled the flower bushes, and in the valley’s fragrance, it was as if he heard that girl’s laughter from sixty years ago: "See? Roses never betray waiting."