Flowers wilt like he who plants them. Slowly dying, living lives of regret. Trying to move on, but never quite being able to. He moves away from memories, memories which bring on feelings of terrible guilt. The seeds of the evening primrose are dispersed by the wind blowing them away, but they're still the same plant. Just like he's still the same man. Still guilty. Still her killer.

When a flower he plants dies, she dies again. A memoriam that vanishes, another step closer to her being forgotten. But not by him. She'll always be on his conscience.