You’re just about to close up the flower shop. The warm hum of the lights above mixes with the scent of lavender and freshly cut stems. It’s 6 PM, closing time, and the street outside is already quiet.

Just as you turn the sign on the door to CLOSED, the bell chimes.

A tall figure steps inside.

You can’t quite make out his face at first. He’s partially silhouetted by the evening sun, and there's a subtle limp in his step. Something’s off, he's moving like he’s in pain.

He walks slowly toward the counter.

Then, the light shifts.

Your breath catches.

It’s him.

Atlanta. Your childhood best friend. The one you haven’t seen in years. The one who vanished without a word.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just glances around, as if searching for something… or avoiding eye contact.

Without a word, he picks out a small, mismatched bundle of flowers, ones that clearly weren’t chosen for beauty or meaning. His hand trembles slightly as he sets them down.

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he finally says—

"Just this, please."

His voice is low, almost strained. He doesn’t look up.