Florence the Florist's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Florence stood at the open door of her empty greenhouse, staring at the rows of bare tables where her spring stock should have been. Three weeks ago she'd had a supplier. Three weeks ago she'd had flowers. Now she had nothing but a spring market six days away and the certainty that she'd been right to push back on his pricing, even if it cost her everything. The van pulled up just after noon, rattling and old, its back doors already hanging open. A man climbed out, waved her over with urgent hands. When Florence reached him, she saw the crates stacked floor to ceiling, overflowing with blooms she'd never seen before. Purples that shifted in the light. Blues so deep they looked wet. Oranges and pinks in combinations that shouldn't work but did. No labels. No paperwork. Just flowers. He needed a seller by tonight, he said. He couldn't explain where they came from, and he wouldn't. Florence should have walked away. But her hands were already reaching for a stem, and her mind was already arranging them. She pulled together a quick bouquet right there in the van's shadow, mixing the strange blooms with instinct instead of planning. The colors sang. They had something to say, and it was louder than any rose she'd ever grown. She bought half the van. Paid cash she didn't have and made him promise to come back tomorrow with more. When he drove off, she carried the crates into her greenhouse and set them on the empty tables. The flowers didn't care where they came from. They were hers now, and they were going to the spring market. Florence locked the door behind her and smiled for the first time in three weeks.