I remember the smell of that Tuesday evening more than anything else. It was a heavy, cloying mix of damp eucalyptus and wilting lilies that seemed to hang in the humid air of the shop. I had been working the closing shift at “Bloom & Stem,” a small, slightly overpriced florist tucked into a quiet corner of a bustling Chicago neighborhood.
The city sounds outside were muffled by the thick glass windows, leaving me with nothing but the hum of the industrial refrigerator and the rhythmic snip-snip of my shears as I prepped the morning’s orders. My back ached, and my hands were stained a faint, permanent green from a long day of stripping thorns.
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