He didn't sleep properly that night. He tossed and turned in bed like someone chasing a shadow that slipped away every time he got close. The image of the girl in the flower shop haunted him: her gentle smile, her words about the red rose, her soft voice that had pierced the wall of his grief.
He tried to convince himself it was just a fleeting coincidence, a short conversation that would leave no lasting mark. But his heart, that prisoner which had locked away his emotions for a year, seemed to be breathing for the first time after a long absence.
---
In the morning, he put on his coat again, and although he hadn't planned it, he found himself walking toward the small street. It was as if his feet knew there was no avoiding a return.
When he stood in front of the glass window, he hesitated for a moment. Should he go in again? Would it seem strange if he returned the very next day?
But before he could decide, he noticed her behind the counter, tidying away the wilted leaves from some flowers. She looked up, saw him through the glass, and smiled spontaneously, as if she had been expecting him.
He pushed the wooden door, and the bell above the entrance announced his arrival. The scent of flowers embraced him again, a fragrance that had become like oxygen he had been deprived of for so long.
---
She said to him,
"Welcome back! I see you've returned quickly."
He felt a little embarrassed, but replied softly,
"Yes… I wasn't planning to come, but… the place is comfortable."
"That's the happiest thing I could hear. Flowers always love those who find comfort in them."
She sat on the small wooden chair next to the counter and gestured for him to sit on the opposite seat. He hesitated slightly, then sat down. The scene felt strange to him; he hadn't sat with anyone in a long time.
---
She began speaking, perhaps sensing that he was still reluctant to open his heart.
"Do you know? I've always believed that flowers are like people. Some bloom quickly and wither just as fast, while others take a long time to grow, but when they do, they remain strong."
He smiled faintly, as if sharing her thought:
"Maybe I'm the second type… but I stopped growing a long time ago."
She looked at him deeply and said,
"Sometimes, all we need is to find new soil, or a different light… nothing really stops, even if we think otherwise."
---
A brief silence fell between them. He was immersed in her words, feeling that she was not just a flower seller, but a person carrying unexpected wisdom. She, in turn, observed his weary features, the sadness that time had failed to erase from his face.
Suddenly she said,
"May I prepare something different for you today?"
He nodded. She moved gracefully, taking some flowers from the shelves: white lilies, purple orchids, and small yellow roses. She began arranging them together, her hands moving elegantly, as if playing silent music.
When she finished, she placed the bouquet in front of him and said,
"This bouquet is called 'A Seat in Memory.' I chose it for you because it means memories don't die, but they can turn into a quiet corner that doesn't hurt you every day."
He gazed at the flowers, feeling his heart tremble.
"My memories aren't quiet… they devour me," he said, his voice trembling.
She placed her hand lightly on the table, near his, without touching him.
"Perhaps you need someone to share that corner with… only then can the pain turn into a story, not a curse."
---
He froze in place. He didn't know how to respond. He had told her nothing of his past, yet she seemed to know everything.
He suddenly stood, nervous, holding the bouquet in his shaking hands.
"How much is it?"
She smiled calmly,
"Consider it a gift… next time, you'll pay."
He felt embarrassed but did not argue. He left the shop quickly, as if his heart could not bear more.
---
On the way back, he kept staring at the bouquet in his hands. Its colors shone under the sunlight, as if telling him that memories shouldn't be his eternal prison.
Back in his apartment, he placed the bouquet beside his wife's picture. He stared at it for a long moment, then whispered softly,
"You know? Perhaps the time hasn't come for me to close the door completely… but I also don't want to die before my story ends."
For the first time in a year, he slept that night without being chased by nightmares. It wasn't deep sleep, but it was a beginning.