There's a particular kind of quiet in the early hours of the morning. The kind that belongs to those who rise before the world stirs—the bakers, the street cleaners, and, of course, the florists.
I like that quiet.
My mornings are predictable. Peaceful. I wake before dawn, make a cup of tea, and step into my garden while the sky is still a soft shade of violet. It's the best part of my day. No customers, no noise, just me and the flowers.
The garden hums with magic, the same way it always has. A long-forgotten place, untouched by human hands, and mine to tend as I see fit. My family once cared for it too, but over the centuries, their interest faded. The allure of research, knowledge, and exploration pulled them elsewhere. But I stayed.
Someone had to.
And so, the cycle repeats. I collect flowers, I open my shop, I sell just enough to keep the doors open, and when the day is done, I close up and retreat back into my solitude. No surprises. No disturbances. No—
Thud.
I stop.
There, just outside my shop, sprawled across the pavement like an abandoned rag doll, is a man. A bleeding, unconscious human man.
I take a long, slow breath, sip my tea, and stare down at him. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll disappear.
He doesn't.
I sigh.
So much for my quiet life.