hrough.

By the sink, a toothbrush still waits in the cup — blue, slightly frayed at the edges. Ellis’s. It catches the light when I walk past, a small, silent thing pretending to belong. It’s been a month since he was here, though the air still feels built for two.

The phone buzzes on the shelf beside the register. 

Ellis: Sorry, long day. I’ll call tonight.

I stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the keys. Okay <3, I type. Then delete it. Type again. Delete again. The words look too hopeful. I finally send Okay and set the phone facedown. The screen goes dark, its reflection swallowing the message whole.

A fly drifts near the door, circles the marigold pots, then escapes into the sunlight. Outside, the trees shift under a new gust — that thick Georgia kind of wind that smells like rain and blooming things. I breathe it in, let it sit heavy in my chest.

The cooler hums, deep and constant. The floor creaks where it always does. A petal falls from the display — red, folding inward as it lands.

I pick it up, turn it between my fingers until it breaks. The color smears faintly on my thumb, a stain that will fade by evening.

I set it on the counter, wipe the spot clean, and reach for the next stem.
The air hums.
The day keeps going.

The light thickens as the afternoon drifts forward — gold sinking into every corner, soft and heavy as syrup. The air smells of roses and heat, the sweetness edged with water and metal. I stand at the workbench, trimming stems one by one, the scissors whispering through petals like quiet breathing.

Each motion folds into the next. Cut. Dip. Arrange. The rhythm carries itself — something between work and prayer. I hum without meaning to, a small sound that slips out between breaths, half-lost in the hum of the cooler.

The melody moves slow, familiar in a way that pricks behind my ribs. It takes a moment to recognize it. Caleb’s.

A tune scribbled years ago on a napkin during study hall — a handful of notes I’d stolen when he tried to throw them away. Fifteen and sixteen. His handwriting quick, careless; mine slower, tracing what I didn’t yet understand. He’d caught me once and said, “I don’t like you.” I’d known even then what he meant.

The hum falters. The scissors stop midair, caught between petals. The light from the window hits the blades, turning them into a thin flash of gold. Outside, a car passes — the soft growl of tires on warm asphalt — and the vibration runs faintly through the floorboards.

I set the scissors down, press my thumb against the table’s edge, and breathe in deep. The air feels thicker now, like the shop itself is remembering.

My phone sits facedown beside the register. I glance at it once. The screen stays black, silent. Ellis’s last text still lingers from the morning — I’ll call tonight.

The silence stretches, layered: the low hum of the cooler, the faint creak of the door shifting in its frame, the heartbeat sound of my own pulse in my ears.

I start humming again, softer this time, almost under my breath. It slips back into the quiet the way the tune always has — not intrusive, just existing there, inside the sound of shears and air.

The roses wait, half-trimmed. The petals seem to lean toward the window, catching the light. Outside, pollen drifts like dust in slow circles.

I reach for the next stem, the cool green slick between my fingers. The rhythm returns, quieter, gentler — the kind that feels like something remembering me back.

The sun angles low through the shop window, the light turning the air into gold. Dust and pollen drift slow through it — tiny motes, suspended like they’ve forgotten how to fall. The door creaks as it opens, the bell above it chiming soft and familiar.

A pair of teenagers step in first, laughing about something I don’t quite catch. The girl smells faintly of coconut shampoo; the boy tracks in heat and the scent of rain that’s already burned off the pavement. They move toward the roses. Their laughter folds into the hum of the cooler, another layer of life that doesn’t reach me but passes close enough to touch.

“Could you—um—wrap this one?” the girl asks, holding up a bundle of pink carnations.

I nod, take the flowers, and lay them gently on the counter. The petals brush my wrist, cool and soft. The paper crinkles when I fold it around them. I wind the twine, tie it off, trim the edge — every motion practiced into ease.

“That’ll be twelve even,” I say.

She digs through her purse, hands me a crumpled bill, thanks me twice. The door opens again before they leave. Warm air spills in, carrying the smell of lavender from the planters outside.

An older woman enters next, hair pinned up, pearls at her throat. She moves slow, deliberate, her eyes taking in the shelves. “It’s always so peaceful in here,” she says.

“Thank you,” I answer, keeping my voice steady.

She chooses white lilies. I wrap them in brown paper, the twine rough between my fingers. The lilies release a sharp, green sweetness — bright, clean, almost metallic.

“You must love being surrounded by so much beauty,” she says, smiling.

I meet her eyes. “I do.”

The words leave my mouth easily, float in the space between us, soft and harmless. She doesn’t see how they sit — how they fold themselves smaller on my tongue before I let them go.

When she leaves, the bell gives its brief, hollow chime again. The door swings shut, and the light changes — cooler now, leaning toward evening. The sound of traffic rises faintly from the street outside.

I glance at the phone by the register. Still dark. Still quiet. The reflection of the window blooms across its black screen — marigolds in gold, blurred at the edges.

The air settles heavy around me. I breathe it in. The smell of earth and flowers clings to my skin. Each stem I touch feels like a prayer for stillness — not hope, not loss, just the simple act of holding something steady.

The light stretches thin across the floor — gold fading to amber, amber to dusk. The air has that late-spring heaviness, the kind that tastes faintly of grass and warm metal. The hum of the cooler clicks off, leaving the shop hollow and soft.

I wipe down the counter for the last time, circles over the same small water rings I never quite scrub away. Outside, the world turns slow — a mower somewhere distant, the steady buzz of insects waking for the night.

The front door’s propped open to the wind. It moves in gentle sighs, carrying the scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet — honeysuckle, maybe. The curtains shift, brush against my arm. My skin sticks to the air.

The phone sits on the counter beside me. Its black screen mirrors the ceiling lights. Still nothing.

“He said he’d call,” I murmur. Not angry. Just the truth, folded small enough to fit in my mouth.

The room holds still for a long moment, as though waiting for something to move first. The fan ticks from the back office — an uneven sound, like the wingbeat of something trapped.

I reach for the doorframe. The wood is still warm from the afternoon sun. My palm rests flat against it, grounding. The heat seeps in slow, deep as breath.

Outside, the sky burns peach at the edges, fading to blue-gray where the first stars wait. The wind picks up, soft but charged, stirring the marigolds in the window box. Their petals shiver, gold catching the last streaks of light.

A car passes. Its headlights brush across the front glass, sliding over the flowers, the counter, my hand. The light goes, leaving behind the faint echo of motion.

I glance at the phone again — quiet. The air shifts, fuller now, carrying the smell of rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

I flip the sign to Closed. The metal chain clicks against the glass. The sound lands sharp in the stillness.

For a breath, I stay there, hand on the door, the air moving through the open frame — warm, restless, waiting.

The petals tremble once more before settling.

I turn the key.

The night exhales.