The Heaven Bound Bouquet

I felt a lump forming in my own throat. “Who did you promise, sweetie?” I asked, kneeling down so I was at her eye level. The shop felt very still, the neon “Open” sign buzzing faintly behind us.

“My mom,” she sobbed, finally pulling the crumpled bouquet out from under her coat. The petals were a bit bruised now, but they still looked elegant. “She’s in heaven. My dad says she can see us, but I want her to have something real. I just wanted her to know I didn’t forget.”

I’m not a wealthy person. I live in a studio apartment where the radiator clanks all night and I eat more ramen than I’d like to admit. But looking at that little girl, whose name I later learned was Callie, I didn’t see a shoplifter. I saw myself fifteen years ago, wishing I had one more thing to give to someone I’d lost. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and took out the twenty-dollar bill I’d been saving for my own groceries.

“You know what?” I said, taking the bouquet from her and walking it back to the register. I smoothed out the cellophane and added a few extra sprigs of greenery to hide the bruised edges. “I think your mom deserves the best ones we have. And since it’s her birthday, this one is on me. I’ll pay the shop for it, and you can take it to her. No more hiding it under your coat, okay?”

She looked at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I scanned the bouquet, swiped my own card for the employee-discounted price, and handed her the flowers in a proper carry-bag. She didn’t say much—just a quiet, breathless “thank you”—before she vanished into the evening gloom of the Chicago streets.

I watched her go, feeling a strange mix of sadness and a tiny bit of warmth. I didn’t tell my boss. I just closed up, went home, and ate a piece of toast for dinner, thinking about where those flowers would end up.

A week passed, and the memory of the girl started to fade into the blur of a busy spring season. I was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon rush, buried under a mountain of carnations, when the atmosphere in the shop suddenly shifted. The front door opened, but it wasn’t the usual sound of a customer. Two men in dark, impeccably tailored charcoal suits stepped inside. They weren’t carrying umbrellas or looking at the sunflowers. They looked like they belonged in a courtroom or a high-security government building.

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