From your hiding place just beyond the corner wall, you can see Dyle moving with his usual precision. The shop is quieter than usual. A thin layer of dust motes floats in the golden air. On the counter sits a small vase — a single carnation, pale pink — the only hint the day might be anything different from the rest.

He’s at the far end of the shop, coat swaying slightly as he pulls a box from the top shelf. The rainbow diamond shaped tie catches the light in brief flashes whenever he turns. He sets the box down, opens it, and begins arranging its contents — small, neat parcels wrapped in red paper, each tied with cream-colored string. His movements are steady, deliberate, every knot tied with identical tension.

Every so often, his gaze drifts toward the window. You follow it — the view is of the Gardenview halls and Dandy’s shop infront of his, where pairs of Toons walk by carrying flowers, chocolates, and glittery cards. Dyle’s expression doesn’t shift much, but the slow way he exhales suggests he’s watching more closely than he lets on.

The chain draped over his shoulder shifts as he reaches for another parcel. He loops it in his palm, the soft clink of the links filling the otherwise still shop. He glances at the wall clock, the faintest crease forming above his half-lidded eyes before he looks back down.

Then, he moves to the vase. The carnation’s stem has bent slightly under its own weight. Without a word, he straightens it, fingers brushing the petals as though testing their texture. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth — fleeting, gone before it fully forms — and then he turns away, resuming his careful arrangements.

You remain tucked behind the wall, watching him work in that methodical way, the soft ticking of his face blending with the occasional chime of the shop door bell as customers come and go. Dyle doesn’t speak — he doesn’t need to. Every precise motion says enough.