The next morning brought a slow drizzle that clung to windows and left the air damp with promise. Elowen Ridge looked grayer than usual, with clouds sagging low over the hills. Most people would have stayed in bed a little longer, but Sera Wynn was already elbow-deep in soil by 6:30 a.m., repotting a stubborn camellia that refused to bloom.
She liked mornings like this—quiet, moody, and dim. The town still slumbered, which meant fewer interruptions, fewer watchful eyes, and fewer judgments disguised as neighborly concern.
As she worked, she heard the soft jingle of the bell on the shop's door. She paused, glancing at the clock. Too early for customers.
She turned—and nearly dropped the pot.
It was Lina Moray.
Soaking wet, camera bag slung over one shoulder, hair plastered to her cheeks, and eyes sharp with curiosity. Her boots dripped on the mat, and she looked around the flower shop like she was inside an alien spacecraft.
Sera stood slowly. "You're a bit early."
"I like to beat the light," Lina said, pushing wet strands behind her ear. "And I don't do well with 'normal hours.'"
Her voice had a raspy quality—low, thoughtful, like she was always half in a monologue. She was beautiful in a sharp, unsettling way. Not delicate like a rose, but daring like a bleeding heart vine—wild, fast-growing, unpredictable.
Sera arched an eyebrow. "Photography?"
"Journalism." Lina stepped further inside, eyeing the displays. "I'm writing a piece for The Solstice Review. Word's gotten out that this sleepy town has a florist who's 'emotionally gifted.'"
Sera's stomach sank.
"I don't do interviews."
"I figured." Lina pulled a notebook from her coat pocket, undeterred. "But that's never stopped me."
Sera crossed her arms. "What do you want, Ms. Moray?"
Lina smiled—not unkindly. "A conversation. I heard something strange yesterday. About how you made the mayor's mother cry with one bouquet. About how Mr. Garvey stopped drinking after you gave him a single orchid. You're either a very good listener… or something else entirely."
Sera remained still. "And if I said it was just flowers?"
"I'd say I don't believe in just anything."
They stared at each other. Silence stretched between them, thick and electric. Then Lina shrugged off her coat and hung it on the stand without asking.
"I'll buy something then," she said, stepping around the counter.
Sera blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You have rules, I get it. So I'll be a customer." Lina reached out and gently touched a cluster of pale delphiniums. "What do these mean?"
"Courage," Sera replied without hesitation. "And grace."
"Sounds about right," Lina murmured, half to herself. "What about this?"
She pointed to a flower that wasn't for sale—a single red thistle, displayed in a small glass near the register.
Sera stiffened.
"That one's… mine."
Lina cocked her head. "Does it mean something?"
Sera hesitated, then said softly, "Defiance."
Lina smiled again. Not the smirk she gave earlier—this time, it was real. Quiet. Understanding.
"I like it," she said. "I think we're going to get along."
Sera didn't smile back.
Later that day, Sera sat in the greenhouse behind the shop, replanting marigolds. She tried to focus, but her thoughts kept spiraling back to Lina's voice, her questions, the way she looked at the thistle.
She felt... exposed.
Sera had spent years cultivating a low profile. Her gift wasn't a showy one, and she preferred it that way. The fewer people who knew about the flowers' ability to absorb and amplify emotions, the safer she felt. Elowen Ridge might have tolerated her—but strangers with notebooks and cameras?
That was dangerous.
Still, there was something about Lina that unsettled her. Not just the journalist's probing instincts, but her presence. Lina walked into a room and tilted it somehow, like a picture frame hung just off-center. You couldn't ignore her. You didn't want to.
And that was a problem.
The next day, Lina returned.
And the day after that.
Each time, she came with a new question, a new flower in mind, a new story she'd heard from someone in town. Sera tried to brush her off, but Lina was relentless—and charming, damn it. She had a way of peeling back layers without you noticing.
One afternoon, after Lina spent an hour helping a teenager pick out "the least awkward apology flowers," Sera finally sighed and asked:
"Why are you really here?"
Lina didn't look up from the orchids she was rearranging. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Nothing about you is obvious."
Lina glanced at her then, and for the first time, Sera saw something behind the journalist's façade—something raw. Wounded.
"I lost someone," Lina said quietly. "A year ago. And I didn't cry. Not once. I just kept going. I started chasing stories that felt like… maybe they'd break something open. Then I heard about this place. And you."
Sera didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Lina continued. "If you can really feel what people feel… if flowers can carry that… I need to know if I'm still human underneath all this numbness."
Sera walked over to the marigolds—hope and remembrance. She plucked a small bloom and offered it to Lina.
"Hold this," she said.
Lina took it in her fingers. Slowly. Carefully. The petals trembled in her hand.
A minute passed.
Then Lina blinked, and tears fell—sudden, unstoppable.
Sera didn't say a word. She just stood there while Lina cried. Not loud or dramatic—just silent tears, like rain sliding down a windowpane.
Lina looked up, dazed.
"You didn't even touch me," she whispered.
"I didn't need to," Sera replied.
From that day on, something shifted.
Lina no longer came just to investigate—she came to learn. She helped rearrange displays. She watered plants. She asked questions not as a reporter, but as someone who genuinely wanted to understand. And though Sera still held parts of herself back, she began to look forward to the sound of the bell, the sight of those soaked boots, the camera slung carelessly at her hip.
They didn't talk about the article again.
They just talked.
About life. About grief. About the way Elowen Ridge held memories like dust in the corners. And every time Lina smiled, Sera's heart bloomed a little more, though she refused to admit it.
Not yet.
But word was spreading.
And not just within Elowen Ridge.
Strangers began calling the shop. People from out of town. Asking about custom arrangements. Asking if Sera could make them a bouquet that meant something—not just love or apology, but peace. Healing. Forgiveness.
Sera didn't know how they found her.
But she knew it had something to do with Lina.
And though she should have been angry… she wasn't.
Not entirely.
Because when Lina looked at her now, it wasn't with suspicion or distance.
It was with awe.
With affection.
With something Sera hadn't seen in a long, long time:
Hope.