The bouquet was finished—soft and balanced, a harmony of color and meaning. Flora wrapped it in cream-colored paper and tied it with a dark green ribbon. She handed it to Callen with both hands, her fingers lingering just a moment too long.
He took it gently, holding it like something fragile. "Do you still go to the lake?" he asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"The willow tree," he said. "By the water's edge. You used to sit there every Sunday afternoon. You'd sketch flowers in your little notebook. I... used to watch you."
Flora stared at him, stunned. "You never said anything."
"I wanted to," Callen admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But you were always so quiet, like a secret the world shouldn't disturb."
Her heart thudded softly, a sound only she could hear.
"That was a long time ago," she said quietly, turning away to rearrange a vase of sunflowers. "People change."
"Have you?" he asked, stepping closer. "Because I haven't forgotten. Not you. Not the way you tucked lilacs behind your ear. Not the way you smiled when no one was looking."
The room was suddenly too small, too full of memories and unsaid words. Flora swallowed. "You left, Callen. Without goodbye. Without a letter. You don't get to walk back into my shop and expect everything to be where you left it."
"I don't," he said softly. "But I came to find out if anything still is."
They stood there, surrounded by flowers blooming with meanings they hadn't spoken aloud yet.
After a moment, Flora spoke again. "Tomorrow is Sunday."
Callen raised an eyebrow.
"If you're looking for old memories," she said, eyes downcast, "I still go to the lake."
Then, without another word, she returned to her lilies, leaving Callen with the bouquet—and hope wrapped in silence.