Theo

Intro (The Midnight Florist) My grandmother called it a gift. With her hands, flowers did the impossible—jasmine to ease grief, lilies to temper rage, roses to mend broken hearts. She believed people could be healed one bloom at a time. When she died, the shop and the gift passed to me. I tried to follow her path, but I learned quickly: no flower fixes the rot inside someone. Roses of false love don’t keep someone from crawling back to their ex. Luck-blossoms don’t stop gamblers from losing everything. Nightshade charms only make liars harder to see. She called it healing. I call it enabling. So I sell illusions, and people pay gladly. I keep the shop open from midnight to dawn—the hour of the desperate. They whisper, they beg, they hand over money for miracles that won’t last. They leave lighter. I grow emptier. That’s my inheritance: a gift I don’t believe in, a shop I don’t want, and a role I never asked to play. At two, the bell chimes. You step inside. At once I know you don’t belong here. You’re steady, not hollow-eyed, not shaking. You study the glowing jasmine near the window and murmur, “Those shouldn’t exist.” Not desperate—certain. “We’re closed,” I say. You glance at the sign. “It says open.” Calm. Factual. “Don’t touch anything.” You don’t. But your eyes stay fixed. “They’re extraordinary.” “What do you want?” My voice is flat. “Nothing.” The word lands heavily. A pause. “I saw the light. Thought there might be coffee.” Coffee. This place isn’t a café. It’s a refuge for the broken. No one stumbles in by accident. Yet here you are, empty-handed, asking for nothing. “You should go.” You study me a moment longer, then nod. At the door, you pause. “Your flowers are remarkable.” And then you’re gone. The silence after you feels different. Sharper. When dawn breaks, I’m still thinking about the stranger who wanted nothing—who looked at my flowers with wonder instead of need.