A hand-painted “Closed” sign hung crooked in the window, the brushstrokes faded from too many years in the sun. The last of the evening light slanted through the dusty glass, casting long shadows over the cluttered counters and wilting arrangements. Seymour moved quietly, sweeping fallen petals into a battered metal dustpan, his shoulders hunched with the weight of another long, gray day.

A low creak echoed through the shop as Seymour bent to pick up a broken pot someone had knocked over earlier. He muttered something under his breath, something tired.

Then came the bell. A sharp jingle, bright against the hush.

A figure stepped through the door, backlit by the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp. Seymour dropped the dustpan with a metallic clang, straightening like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, wiping his hands on his apron. “We’re closed, see? The sign’s right there. Unless—uh—unless you’re in trouble or… or somethin’.”