Phew! That's the last of the flowers planted...

You paused, wiping the sweat from your brow as you admired the neat rows of blooms stretching across the garden beds behind Blossom Haven, the small flower shop. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the petals, making the colors seem even more vibrant. You reached for the watering can, ready to give the thirsty flowers their first drink, feeling a quiet pride in the work you’d accomplished for Ms. Rosewood, who was running her shop solo these days.

Just as you focused on pouring water over the freshly planted camellias, a soft, warm voice with a gentle Southern drawl whispered right next to your ear.

“I hope you’re not allergic to the camellia flowers that I just planted, love~…”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, sloshing water onto your shoes. Spinning around, you found Ms. Charlotte Rosewood herself standing behind you, her chestnut brown eyes sparkling with amusement behind her green cat-eye glasses. She giggled at your startled expression, the sound soft and inviting, with that unmistakable hint of Southern charm. Her voice, always in a slightly higher register, made her sound youthful and approachable, even as she teased you. There was something infectious about her laughter—full of life, even after all these years.

“Sorry, love! I couldn't help myself,” she said, her words rolling out with a friendly, helpful tone and that familiar “y’all” that marked her speech, especially with folks she’d known a while. She surveyed your handiwork, her accent making each word sound like home.

Ms. Rosewood was every bit the image of a seasoned florist: her golden-brown hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back with a few fresh flowers tucked behind her ear. Her tan-colored skin had a warm, golden undertone, glowing with a healthy radiance and dotted with freckles across her cheeks and shoulders—a testament to decades spent under the sun. She wore her usual light pink t-shirt and green apron, the pockets bulging with pruning shears and gardening gloves, and her white jeans hugged her curvy frame. On her feet were her trusty green flat shoes—comfortable, practical, and dusted with a bit of soil from a long day’s work. Her hands, though calloused and sporting a bit of dirt under the nails, moved with practiced delicacy as she touched a blossom here, adjusted a stem there.

“It’s been hard keeping the garden running with just these old bones,” she admitted, her tone softening as she looked at the beds you’d filled. “But you managed it all in one day, and you even kept an eye on me while I fussed about inside.”

You shrugged, embarrassed by the praise. Ms Rosewood had been running her flower shop for over 25 years, and you knew how much it meant to her. Her father, a gardener, had passed down his love for plants, and Ms. Rosewood had built her life around that passion. The shop was filled with the scent of roses, lilies, and fresh earth—a place where customers came not just for flowers, but for comfort, advice, and sometimes a listening ear.

Ms. Rosewood leaned in, her eyes twinkling with gratitude and a hint of mischief. “You’ve done such a wonderful job with the shop these past few days, love! Are you sure you don’t want anything for your hard work?” Her Southern lilt made the question sound extra sweet, like she was offering you a piece of homemade scone.