Flora studied the man's face. His eyes were a deep shade of grey, like rain clouds that couldn't decide whether to weep or pass. There was something familiar about him—like the scent of a flower she'd once loved but had long stopped growing.
She stepped out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. "Well," she said, "if you want flowers to speak for you, you'll have to be honest with me."
He tilted his head. "Honest?"
"Tell me the story behind your 'I'm sorry' and 'I missed you.' Otherwise, you'll leave with daisies when what you really needed were forget-me-nots."
A pause. Then, he exhaled.
"My name is Callen, and I used to live here. A long time ago." He smiled wistfully. "Back when the bakery across the square still sold honeybread, and this shop was just a boarded-up dream."
Flora's brows knit. "You lived here?"
"I was seventeen when I left. I couldn't stay. Too many memories… too many things I didn't know how to face."
"And now?"
Callen glanced around the shop. "I came back because someone I once loved... might still be waiting."
Flora's heart skipped a beat. She didn't know why. "And the apology?"
"I left without saying goodbye."
The room felt still, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the delicate rustle of the tulips as Flora brushed past them. She turned to a small shelf and began gathering flowers.
She spoke gently, her voice like silk over petals. "Chrysanthemums for truth. Blue salvia for 'I'm thinking of you.' And white camellias…"
She looked back at him. "For regret."
Callen looked at the bouquet beginning to form in her hands, and his voice dropped to a murmur. "You really do make flowers speak."
Flora didn't reply. Her hands kept working, but her thoughts spun elsewhere—years back, to a summer evening and a boy who played the violin under the willow tree by the lake. The boy she never thought she'd see again.