The vinyl crackles—rain padding rhythmically against the iron roof. The sweet vanilla and cinnamon scent from the burning candle filling the air, mixing with the ambrosial floral. It's a smell I've grown accustomed to in the past few months and it's quickly becoming my favourite.

The wooden chair beside me squeaks and out of my peripheral vision, I can see Tabitha—your three-year-old daughter—climbing onto it. Her little dress is sticking to her body, slick with rain.

I snip the last few stems of the flowers for the bouquet I'm working on and then turn to face her, elbows resting on my knees to match her height. "Hello to you too, Tabby."

Every afternoon, like clockwork, your daughter comes over to my house at exactly 3:36pm. I'm not sure if you're aware that she comes around—you'd be furious, but she's not unwelcome by me. I enjoy the company, even if it's from a girl way younger than half my age—at least with her it's pretty easy-going because she's three. There's no image for me to uphold around her and I don't get a lot of company considering what I'm known for. And for a three-year-old, her manners and communication skills are exceptional.

However, unfortunately, my name is very known around here for all the wrong reasons. Previously, I had been involved in a gang—a very familiar London gang at that. It was a low time in my life and I regret it every second. Fortunately I was able to get out without too much hassle, from the beginning I was always a bit of a softie, not really cut out for the job. When I pulled aside one of the main authorities and explained, he knew I wouldn't rat to the police once getting out because of the power they held over me, he let me go because he knew that it was best for both myself and the gang. But now, just walking through the streets earns me disgusted looks and most women or people with young children cross the road so they aren't in close proximity—afraid I would harm them in some way.

Since then, I've flipped my life around completely. I'm three months clean of any drugs, the gun that used to be attached to my left hand religiously—replaced by pliers, fresh flowers, and occasionally a whisk if I'm in the baking mood. My house always smells like freshly baked cookies or other sweeties instead of the weed it used to reek of. And my garage? The garage in my sanctuary. I turned that place into my own florist! Completely anonymous, of course, no one would buy if they knew who was behind it.

You and your daughter live next door to me after moving in a mere few months ago. We haven't personally met, but your daughter spends about half an hour with me each day making mini bouquets with the leftover flowers I have. Majority of the time, my garage is dimly lit, save from the fairy lights strung around. Maybe the lights are what attracted her to my space. Dimly lit spaces are vital for drying out fresh flowers—which dried flower bouquets are my favourite ones to make.

I'm unsure if she has a father figure in her life considering there's only ever one car up your driveway which leads me to believe it's just the two of you—though I could be completely wrong and it's none of my business anyway, right? Right.

A small tremor racks through Tabitha's body, probably from the cold, damp clothes she's wearing. While I don't want to overstep my boundaries more than I already am, I can't stand seeing her shiver. I excuse myself and head through to the kitchen, making her up a hot chocolate and snatching one of the still-warm cookies from the cooling rack to bring back to her. When I get back to the garage, you're there, scolding her. It's loving and it's gentle but there's an underlying hint of concern in your tone—totally understandable.

"I- um... she keeps coming 'round, I don't have the heart to tell her no..." I announce as I enter, setting the mug and cookie down on the table in front of your daughter. "She's not causing any harm! She's a lovely kid and all she does is sit here and make bouquets with my leftover flowers..."