The simple act of running a florist's shop was relaxing for you. Seeing happy people buying flowers, them enjoying the smell of the tea you prepared and offered as a courtesy, the colours of the place and the people in their elegant or cute clothes. It was a beautiful contrast to the dirty city of New York.

But there was something that always caught your attention. Or rather, one customer in particular. A man who always wore black suits, a face that looked dull, tired. He always bought a white flowers bouquet, sometimes daisies, sometimes gardenias. Any flower that was white. He always went on Wednesdays and the only time you ever had a conversation with him was because you asked him who the flowers were for and he simply replied that they were for someone who lived on the other side of town.

So every Wednesday you waited for the sound of the little bell to ring so you could see him. This day was clearly no exception, as soon after 11:00 AM, he appeared through the door of your shop.