Emilia’s pov 

The morning smelled like lavender and old regrets.

Emilia slid her fingers along the spine of a freshly trimmed stalk of sage, brushing away dew that clung like memories. The rooftop greenhouse above Marigold & Ivy, her quiet floral boutique, buzzed with bees but lacked human voices—just the way she liked it.

Silence wasn’t empty. It was full of the things people were too afraid to say.

A soft breeze lifted her pale linen apron. She wiped her hands on it absentmindedly and bent to tend to the rows of dusky purple orchids, their petals bruised like her thoughts.

Every flower in her shop had a story. Emilia never spoke them aloud, but she remembered them all—names, occasions, tragedies. Flowers had language. Unlike people, they never lied.

The doorbell chimed below.

She stiffened, heart thudding. It was thirty minutes before opening.

She moved to the railing, peering through the ivy curtain that shielded her greenhouse from the world. A man stood just inside the entrance—tall, angular, dressed in a black tailored coat like he belonged to the rain outside.

He didn’t look at the flowers.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

Emilia stepped back.

She told herself it wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Just the unfamiliar hum of recognition. She’d seen him before—once, fleetingly, at the coffee shop across from her building. He was the kind of man you remembered even if you wished you didn’t.

And now he was here.

She descended the stairs slowly, her steps deliberately quiet. The man didn’t move. His stillness felt unnatural—like a sculpture about to break apart and come to life.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said softly, hugging herself.

His eyes scanned her face. “I don’t mind waiting.”

His voice was silk cut on glass.

Emilia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The silence stretched like a tight thread. He broke it first.

“You left this.” He pulled a dark card from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

It was hers. She never carried business cards, but yesterday she'd stuffed a blank one into her back pocket while rearranging the lobby bouquet order. She must have dropped it.

Except… this wasn’t blank anymore.

In sleek silver script, her name was printed—Emilia Hart, Floral Curator & Artist.

And beneath it: “I want to commission you.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I didn’t write that,” she whispered.

“I did.” He watched her reaction. “But it felt true.”

She stared at the card like it was a puzzle missing pieces. “You want flowers?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I want a painting.”

Her throat tightened.

“You already bought one,” she said. “From the café wall.”

“Not enough,” he replied. “I want one of me.”

Her heart stuttered. “Why?”

“Because your art sees people. And I want to be seen.”

That scared her more than anything else.

“You don’t know me,” she said, stepping back.

“Don’t I?” he asked quietly. “You paint shadows, Miss Hart. And I’m full of them.”

She glanced at the door, ready to run. But he didn’t move to stop her. Just watched, like a man who knew patience was a weapon.

“I’m not taking commissions,” she said, voice firmer.

“Not yet,” he agreed.

Then he did something strange. He pulled a white tulip from the inside of his coat—fresh, unbroken, impossible in August—and set it beside the card.

“For grief,” he said, nodding once. “You know the meaning.”

He turned and walked out, coat snapping behind him like a curtain dropping on a scene she hadn’t agreed to star in.

Emilia stood there long after the door had closed, the scent of white tulip filling her lungs like a ghost she hadn’t invited back.

The card trembled between her fingers, slick at the edges from the sweat on her palm.

Vale Industries.

Black ink, no number. Just an address printed beneath a silver-embossed logo of a serpent devouring its own tail.

She turned it over again. Blank.

Emilia blinked hard, the corners of her vision tightening the way they did when the memories clawed too close to the surface. Don’t spiral. Not here. Not in front of anyone.

She slipped the card into her apron pocket and forced her breath steady. The shop was quiet again. The stranger had gone. No scent lingered. No voice to chase. Just that strange stillness—like something had shifted in the room without permission.

A bell rang from the back, jarring her. “Emilia?” called Sandra, her manager. “Customer?”

“He left,” Emilia said, voice too thin.

Sandra poked her head through the beaded curtain. “Did he buy anything?”

“No.”

She frowned. “Then why are you still pale like a ghost saw you?”

Emilia didn’t answer. She took off her gloves, placed the shears down, and quietly excused herself to the back.

In the storeroom, surrounded by wilting peonies and boxes of bulk soil, she sat on an overturned crate and exhaled. Her heart beat like a fist in her throat. This wasn’t just any business card. No logo like that belonged in a flower shop. It felt... wrong. Expensive. Deliberate.

Her hand moved on its own, drawing it out again.

Why leave it? Why her?

Suddenly, the small light above her flickered. Once. Twice. Then a hum—faint and low—buzzed in the walls like static just before a storm.

She froze.

Then it stopped.

Emilia stood abruptly, every nerve on edge. She needed to go home. Her paints would soothe her. Her world, small and structured, was the only sanctuary she trusted. She’d drop the card in the trash. Forget the man. Forget the eyes.

As she reached for the door, the main shop bell chimed again.

Another customer?

She peered through the curtain. Empty.

But on the counter, beside the cash register, sat a single object: a white calla lily wrapped in black silk ribbon.

She hadn’t made that.

It hadn’t been there ten seconds ago.

Her mouth went dry.

She moved forward slowly, as if the flower might vanish if she blinked too long. A tag hung from the ribbon. No name. Just three words handwritten in graceful cursive:

“For the fire inside.”

Her breath caught.

No one knew that phrase.

It was something her mother used to whisper when Emilia had night terrors as a child. A memory buried so deep, even Emilia had forgotten it until now.

She backed away.

Had she told anyone? No.

Had she written it down? Never.

So how—

The door slammed open behind her. Emilia flinched hard, dropping the flower as Sandra rushed in with her phone. “Hey—are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a—"

But she stopped. Looked around.

"Who brought that?"

“I... I don’t know.”

Emilia stared at the bloom now on the floor, petals still pristine despite the fall. Her thoughts were spiraling.

Sandra moved to pick it up. “You sure you’re not being stalked? That guy earlier—he looked—”

“Don’t.” Emilia’s voice cut sharp. She didn’t know why, but her gut screamed to keep it close. Keep it secret.

Sandra stepped back.

“I’m going home early.”

“But your shift—”

“I’ll make it up. Please.”

She didn’t wait for permission.

With the card pressed flat against her chest and the memory of her mother’s voice burning in her ears, Emilia stepped out into the cold August air.

She didn’t see the black car parked across the street. Or the figure in the passenger seat watching her go.

She lifted the card again. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear—this time, it was something else. She looked toward her easel in the backroom. Her brushes hadn’t moved in days.

Maybe it was time they did.

That night, she dreamed of fire. Again.

Only this time, the man was in it—standing at the center, untouched by flame, whispering her name.