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.

Florence arrived at the greenhouse before sunrise, but the crowd was already there. Dozens of people pressed against the glass, peering in at the flowers she'd arranged last night. Some had phones out, taking pictures. Others just stared. She recognized a few regular customers, but most were strangers. She unlocked the door and they poured in, surrounding the tables before she could say a word. They reached for the blooms, touched petals, leaned in to smell them. One woman held up a stem of deep blue flowers and asked the price. Another wanted a bouquet for a wedding next week. A man in the back kept pointing at the purples that shifted in the light. Florence opened her mouth to answer and three more people started talking over each other. She held up both hands and the crowd went quiet. "One at a time," she said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. She pointed to the woman with the blue stem. "Fifteen for a bundle. Tell me what you need." The woman nodded and grabbed two more stems. Florence turned to the man asking about weddings. "I can do custom work. Leave your contact." She kept moving, answering questions, making notes on scraps of paper she pulled from her pocket. The anxiety was there, thrumming under her ribs, but her hands knew what to do. By the time the sun came up, she'd sold half her stock and taken orders for three times what remained. The greenhouse felt lighter, almost empty again, but this time it meant something different. She had customers. She had demand. And when the man with the van came back today, she'd be ready to buy everything he brought. Florence locked the door behind the last customer and looked at the cash in her hands. The spring market was still five days away, but she wasn't done anymore.

Florence counted the hours three times. The man with the van was supposed to arrive at noon. She'd cleared space in the greenhouse, moved the remaining stock to the corner tables, and set aside the cash from yesterday's sales in a locked box under the counter. By two o'clock she started pacing. By four she called the number he'd given her and got a recording that the line was no longer in service. She stood outside the greenhouse entrance until the light started to fade. A few rose petals from yesterday's rush scattered across the concrete where the van should have parked. She picked one up, crushed it between her fingers, and watched it fall. Inside, the wooden shelf she'd cleared for the new stock stood empty. On the counter sat her order book, every page filled with names and phone numbers and requests for flowers she didn't have. Three days until market. No stock. No backup. No way forward. Florence went back inside and locked the door. She pulled out the order book and her phone. Her hands shook as she dialed the first number. A woman answered on the second ring. Florence told her the truth—the flowers weren't coming, she couldn't fill the order, she was sorry. The woman was quiet for a moment, then asked if Florence could do something smaller, simpler, with what she had left. Florence looked at the corner tables, at the handful of stems still waiting. She said yes. She called the next number, and the next. By midnight she'd reached everyone in the book. Half the orders were cancelled. The other half she'd reworked into smaller arrangements using every bloom she had left. She'd have nothing for the market booths, but she'd have something for the people who'd trusted her. Florence set the phone down and looked at the empty shelf, the scattered petals swept into a pile by the door. She wasn't done. She was just working with what she had instead of what she'd been promised. It wasn't the spring she'd planned, but it was still hers.