The village of Auberlane woke each day with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Tucked near the town square was a little flower shop with ivy climbing its wooden walls and pansies blooming on the windowsill. Its sign read: "La Florelle – Flowers for the Soul."
The shop's owner, Flora Florence, was known for her delicate touch with blossoms and her quiet smile. Every morning before the sun peeked over the rooftops, she was already at the flower market, selecting roses with petals like velvet, lilacs that whispered of spring, and peonies soft as clouds.
She lived alone above her shop, in a cozy loft that smelled perpetually of jasmine and lavender. She liked it that way—peaceful, unbothered, surrounded by colors and silence. Some villagers said she was waiting for someone. Others believed she simply liked flowers more than people.
One morning, as Flora arranged a bouquet of white tulips and blue hydrangeas for an old couple's anniversary, the doorbell chimed.
A man stepped in, unfamiliar, dressed in travel-worn clothes and smelling faintly of rain and road dust. He paused at the threshold, taking in the aroma of fresh petals and damp earth.
"Can I help you?" Flora asked, brushing her hair behind one ear.
The man offered a small, sheepish smile. "I'm looking for something that says... I'm sorry. But also... I've missed you."
Her fingers paused over the hydrangeas.
"That's a heavy message for flowers," she said quietly.
He met her gaze. "I was told you're the one who can make flowers speak."