By Paulo Coelho
I was flying from New York to Chicago to attend the book fair held by the American Booksellers Association. Suddenly, a young man stood up in the aisle of the plane and announced:
‘I need twelve volunteers each willing to carry a single rose when we get off the plane.’
Several people raised their hands. I did too, but I wasn’t chosen.
Even so, I decided to follow the group. We landed and the young man indicated a young woman in the arrivals hall at O’Hare airport. One by one, the passengers presented their roses to her. At last, in front of everyone, the young man asked her to marry him, and she accepted.
An air steward said to me:
‘I’ve been working here for years, and that’s the most romantic thing that has ever happened in this airport.’
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