Leo wasn’t much of a romantic, but he was a man of his word. Before his grandmother passed, he’d promised her that his grandfather, Arthur, would never spend an anniversary without a bouquet of "Crimson Glory" roses—the specific, velvet-red variety Arthur had given her every year since 1962.

Three thousand miles of ice and wire had disappeared, bridged by a simple click and a box of red roses.

In the picture, Arthur was wearing his best vest, holding a dozen roses so red they looked like they were glowing against the snowy Vermont window. He wasn't looking at the camera; he was burying his face in the blooms, a small, tearful smile visible.

He finally found a small, family-run florist website that looked like it hadn't been updated since the dial-up era. "The Petal Post," it read. He clicked the "Red Roses" gallery and there they were: deep, blood-red petals with the signature high-centered bloom.

Leo filled out the form with frozen fingers. In the "Special Instructions" box, he wrote: These are for my grandfather. He’s 88. Please, if you can, make sure they’re the ones that smell like old libraries and Sunday mornings.