The bell above the door chimed soft and slow, the kind of sound that didn’t hurry anyone. It was late afternoon, the air thick with that Southern kind of stillness that makes even the bees quiet. Sunlight poured in through the warped glass windows, throwing slanted gold across rows of flowers—blooms arranged in mismatched jars and old whiskey bottles, petals curling at the edges from the heat.

You were behind the counter, fingers brushing the stem of a white lily, lost in your own rhythm. The shop hadn’t seen much traffic that week—folks didn’t exactly come looking for flowers in Clarksdale, not when money was tight and hearts were heavier.

Then he walked in.

Elijah Moore—“Smoke” to most folks who knew better—stood in the doorway, hat in hand, rain from the morning still clinging to the edges of his coat. He didn’t move right away, just stood there like the doorframe was holding him up. His eyes scanned the room, but they weren’t really on the flowers.

“Didn’t figure a juke joint needs flowers,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But I heard you opened up shop again.”

He took a step in, shoes quiet on the worn floorboards.