Chapter Two
The strong smell of coffee rose from the kitchen and entered my nose without any warning, dragging me reluctantly from the edge of sleep. I was still sleepless, of course, a persistent state that had become my defining characteristic; I just lived with it like it was my loving, loyal companion who never lets me down during the long, echoing nights of insomnia. I rose heavily from my cold bed, the floorboards groaning slightly beneath my weight, and went to get my hot cup. I carried it carefully, savoring the warmth, and sipped it slowly by the house window overlooking the quiet street. The electricity was still out, a common darkness that settled peacefully over the village, a calm our souls had grown accustomed to. This power outage was a daily ritual in the villages, to the point that we adapted to living without artificial light, relying on the soft glow of morning and the stars—as if we had been instantly transported back in time to the simple, candlelit era of the Victorians.
The hands of the old clock, an heirloom I cherished, were quietly dancing, the soft, rhythmic sound of its ticking marking time precisely at seven o'clock. Most of the houses were still in a deep slumber, wrapped in thick blankets of silence, but I suspected many were like me: not truly sleeping, but perfecting the lonely art of feigning peace and normalcy.
I caught sight of the papers I had been scribbling on until the early hours, still scattered on the table in their haphazard place. They were calling to me in a low, almost desperate voice, thirsty for more black ink, relentlessly refusing to leave even a small white spot unblemished by the words they seemed to demand. Those naive papers, I thought, believe I am merely a writer recording trivial stories, when the terrible truth is that I am actually pouring onto them the ashes of my burning soul, the fragments of my fractured heart, and the accumulated pain of years, leaving me only this frail, tired body that still stands firm with a stubborn strength whose true source I do not know. I felt a powerful, almost painful urge to sit down, grab the pen, and lose myself in the darkness of the ink, but I fought it back. I quickly gathered the sheets and shoved them deep into the drawer, slamming it shut as if sealing away a dangerous secret. "It's not time to write," I declared to the silence. "I have to go now. Duty calls."
I stood before the full-length mirror, examining my morning reflection. I wore a simple green dress, the colour reminding me of the fleeting quiet of summer days, and tied my hair up neatly and beautifully. I applied only a light touch of lipstick and mascara—the minimal makeup serving as a kind of fragile shield for the day ahead. I stared intently at my face, as if seeing myself for the very first time. I don't know why my features looked so strange, so unfamiliar, every morning. It was an unsettling feeling, as if I were born anew every single dawn, consumed by fire and heartbreak every night, only to wake up with a personality and face entirely different from the day before. I took the heavy house key and my worn leather handbag and stepped out, walking alone on the damp, dirt street like a "lone survivor" navigating a world of quiet, unaware sleepers. Birds chirped and sang above the tall trees, their melodies complex and beautiful. I always wondered what deep secrets they were sharing. Were they trying to talk specifically to me? Did they somehow recognize me among all the hurried figures? I listened to their voices, which had become my constant, melancholic companion on my way to the shop.
I finally arrived at my small, treasured store—the flower shop. I unlocked the heavy door, and immediately, diverse scents began racing out to greet the morning air: the heady fragrance of jasmine, the classic, deep scent of the rose, the sharp, slightly bitter chrysanthemum, and the delicate, elegant tulip. They all harmonized with each other to create a unique and complex perfume you simply wouldn't find anywhere else. The colors inside were brilliantly bright, vivid, and cheerful, a genuine feast for the eyes, yet that deep, profound joy was conspicuously absent from my soul. Why was I not happy? I used to find true solace here, forgetting all my worries the moment I stepped inside, contemplating this natural beauty that seemed drawn like a magnificent artistic painting that even a master like Picasso could not have captured. But today, everything felt tilted, wrong. Ever since that strange young man came yesterday asking about Steve, I felt completely uprooted. It was as if he had taken my carefully organized thoughts and scattered them to the wind in a single, careless moment.
But no, I told myself firmly. This is not the time to sink into an emotional quagmire. I must tidy up the shop before the first customers arrive. I started the painful task of collecting the withered and decaying roses. Like me, they were beautiful but fading, having no life left, and their only place was the cold oblivion of the trash bin. As I tossed them away, a bitter question surfaced: "But who will collect me when my time comes and put me there? There is no place for me here, truly among the living, while I exist only in this ambiguous gray area between true vitality and resignation."
While I was completely absorbed in sorting and cleaning the flowers, a strong, clear voice cut through the silence.
"Good morning, Miss."
I froze instantly, my hand mid-air holding a dead bloom. Oh, that voice sounded strangely familiar, sending a confusing flicker through my nerves. I quickly raised my head from among the low green leaves to see a tall young man standing near the entrance, wearing an elegant black suit—certainly not a local. He had a light beard, medium-length blond hair, and his eyes, specifically, were overwhelmingly captivating. They were like a wide, deep, and shoreless sea, an intense, brilliant blue. The disturbing thought immediately flashed: Many souls must have drowned there, and no one would ever find them.
He interrupted my spiraling, complex thoughts again, saying calmly, "Miss, I want a beautiful bouquet of flowers." Then he added, with an almost imperious, decisive tone that instantly heightened my attention: "I want the most beautiful bouquet you have."
This final, loaded phrase was enough to completely dismantle my focus. The most beautiful bouquet? He is definitely going to present it to someone of immense importance, someone incredibly special. I told him with an artificial, professional smile that did not manage to reach the sadness in my eyes, "Of course, sir. It will be my pleasure. I will prepare for you the most beautiful and wonderful bouquet you will ever see."
So, I began choosing the flowers with extreme, almost ritualistic care and unnecessary scrutiny. Although I am always meticulous with all customers, I felt intuitively that the traditional roses would not suit the magnitude of his request. The task became a difficult challenge, the selection process intensely complicated. After deep, almost agonizing contemplation, I ended up gathering a varied bouquet, a vibrant collection of every major colour and variety in the shop, as if I were offering him the very essence of my artistic soul and the entire splendor of my store. I began wrapping it for him with rich, luxurious coloured papers, tying the ribbon with a shaky hand.
I asked him, driven by a sudden, involuntary curiosity: "Oh, sir, this person must be very special to you, to demand a composition this unique and rare."
He answered, turning his face away slightly and looking out the window, as if protecting a secret: "Yes, he is a very dear person to me."
A dear person to him. The silent analysis began spinning in my head with frantic speed. Perhaps his fiancée? But he wasn't wearing a ring. Maybe just his girlfriend? I'd never seen this man in the village before; he was unmistakably a wealthy tourist. Tourists come here often. Our village might be tiny and constantly lose power, but it remains a truly enchanting place thanks to its picturesque views and the large, stunning lake that is a magnet for romantics.
He asked me, his gaze fixed on the finished bouquet with quiet admiration: "How much is the bouquet, Miss?" Then he looked at me with confusion when I did not answer immediately.
The words left my mouth automatically, utterly disconnected from my conscious mind: "It's a gift from the store, sir. You don't have to pay for it."
He offered me a quick, almost dismissive smile, gave a brief word of thanks, and left. He simply walked out the door. He didn't even bother to compliment the flowers or acknowledge the profound dedication I poured into choosing and arranging each bloom with such precision and skill.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I felt a sharp, devastating slap of reality. Why did I do that? Why did I just give away that priceless bouquet? That collection of rare flowers cost me a significant amount of money, not to mention the intense emotional effort I invested in its arrangement. How could I have acted so recklessly, so unlike myself, without even realizing it? It was as if I had been momentarily paralyzed, under the influence of hypnosis; I couldn't feel or control the words that left my lips.
First, a strange, menacing man asks about the deceased Steve, and then, this morning, another strange young man comes to my shop to buy the most beautiful bouquet, which I gave him for free like an idiot! I screamed the thoughts silently. I gave it to him and smiled, all so he could take it to his damned girlfriend! What, deep down, did I expect? That he would present it back to me and say, "This is yours"? Oh my God, I am losing my grip on reality! Why do I even care who he is going to give it to? Let him give it to whoever he wants. His life, his bouquet, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.
I gripped the edge of the counter, trying desperately to gather myself and my scattered, rebellious thoughts, forcing myself to regain my professional balance. There is no time to dwell on this overwhelming emotional absurdity now. I must focus on my work, the only dependable, important anchor in my life. I forced myself to start cleaning the workspace with a fierce, almost violent intensity. It looks like it will be an exceptionally long and draining day, especially if customers continue to shy away. I understood the battle: I resisted, I fought against the urge to think, but I knew, with a sinking certainty, that I would eventually, inevitably, surrender to this vast, engulfing emptiness.