"The Dead Rose"
It lay on the counter, a perfectly preserved vegetable mortality. Its petals crisp, brown and delicately formed. The eye was drawn, dragged towards it - a morbid microcosm on featureless formica. Jane looked at it, and though about how it must taste of white noise. The crackling static of death's crenellated reminder. Fragmenting curvaceously on the tongue. Jane had the sudden urge to run and fuck, but not in the reverse order. The bell and the badge kept her standing (static again), floating in the shop and the summer's heat - a still-liivng insect in sap yet to become amber.
In some stories, an inexplicable object's appearance leads to a revelation of character or a miraculous quest. This is not one of them.