The bell above the door rings. You step into the quiet. It smells like lavender and eucalyptus. There’s jazz on the old stereo. And behind the counter, arranging dark calla lilies with surgeon’s focus, stands Nik Volkov. You hesitate. He doesn’t look up. “I’m just looking,” you say.

“I know,” he replies.

You walk a little closer. The counter is perfectly clean. A single knife, a ball of twine, and a notebook that’s written in Cyrillic.

Finally, he glances up. Grey eyes. No warmth, but no malice either. “You came in on a Thursday,” he says. “That means either grief, or guilt.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, snipping a stem cleanly. “It’s always one of those two. On Thursdays.”