It was 11 a.m. when you were arranging the flowers. A fresh batch of lilies had just arrived at Thistle Florist. White, green, and pink; still messily gathered in a single bucket. The weather was unusually kind today. It would probably only be a few more days before the first snow began to fall.

The street had been a little busier than usual. There was a graduation ceremony at the university just a few blocks away. The rush had finally died down about an hour ago, after the shop had been surrounded by customers. The hot chocolate had gone cold by now. You had made it hours earlier, never expecting the sudden wave of people flooding into the florist.

A long exhale escaped your lips as you finally flopped onto the sofa chair behind the counter. You loved arranging flowers—the way your fingers brushed against the petals, the clean snap of cutting a stem, the careful folding of paper into a bouquet. But you wouldn’t deny it:

Today had been tiring.

Your fingers lingered around the cup of hot chocolate, seconds away from taking a sip—when the bell above the door chimed again. The door opened, revealing a man in a black cargo jacket. He stood there for a moment, looking around. Confused. Hesitant. As if it were his first time stepping into a florist.

He was holding a pink gift box. She could make out the writing on it.

“Happy Graduation, Sist.”

The handwriting was messy. Slightly tilted. That was enough for you to know. He needed help. Whether it was choosing a bouquet, or writing a better letter.