Flower

The cold had a way of sneaking into November mornings, settling into the bones of the city long before anyone was awake enough to notice. It was the kind of cold that stole warmth from fingertips, froze breath to fog, and made even sunlight look thin.

But that morning, something about the light was different—sharper, clearer, almost theatrical as it cut through the brittle air.

It landed directly on the small neighborhood flower shop at the corner of Bramble Street, the only spot of color in a row of gray apartment blocks. Frost clung to the windows, but the flowers displayed outside stood bravely against the wind—petals trembling, stems swaying like they were whispering secrets to each other.

And in the middle of those trembling blooms stood a blue poppy.

It wasn’t the ordinary kind—its shade was deeper, almost unreal, like a drop of sky trapped in a petal. People rarely noticed it. They walked by with heavy coats, heavy steps, heavy lives. Heads down. But the poppy waited, quietly, as if it knew exactly who it was meant for.

At 8:14 AM, the sun dimmed.

A tall shadow fell over the flower stand.

He appeared without hurry, without purpose, just there—as if the cold had carved him into existence. A man in his thirties, maybe early forties, with eyes the exact shade of the poppy’s petals. The resemblance was striking enough that it looked intentional, like the world had matched them on purpose.

His hair, tousled by the wind, was a deep brown that gleamed subtly under the pale sun. His shoulders carried a tension that didn’t belong to early morning hours, and his face, although handsome and strong, carried no smile.

Not even a ghost of one.

He scanned the display absently—until his gaze landed on the blue poppy.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not recognition… longing, maybe. Grief. Something that softened the sharpness of his features for the briefest moment.

He reached for the flower gently, as though afraid it might bruise under his touch.

Inside the shop, the bell chimed with a sound far too cheerful for the heaviness on his shoulders. Mrs. Boyle, who had run the flower shop for thirty years, gave him her usual warm smile.

“Morning, Mr. Hale,” she greeted. “Back for the roses again?”

He shook his head. “Not today.”

He placed the blue poppy on the counter. She raised a brow—she knew her regulars, and she absolutely knew this man had never bought a poppy before.

“Special occasion?” she asked.

His jaw twitched. A breath caught in his throat. For a second she thought he might answer her honestly.

Instead, he simply said, “Trying something new.”

She didn’t push. She wrapped the flower delicately, tied the ribbon, and placed it in his hand.

“Good luck, then,” she said softly.

He didn’t smile, but he nodded once in acknowledgement before stepping back out into the cold.

---

His flat was only three blocks away, nestled above a quiet bakery that smelled of vanilla in the mornings and burnt sugar in the evenings. He climbed the stairs slowly, as if each step weighed more than the last. The moment he unlocked the door, he could already feel the tension building inside the apartment.

She was home.

His wife stood in the living room—a stunning brunette with a sharp beauty that could cut. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, but her face was tightly drawn, like the harsh lines of suspicion had carved themselves into her skin.

Her eyes flicked to the table, then away, then back again.

Memories rushed forward unbidden: a whispered phone call late at night, a sudden perfume she didn’t recognize, a laugh that wasn’t hers, and all those sleepless nights piecing together shadows into proof.

Her chest tightened. Her hands shook.

He’s lying again. He’s lying again. He’s hiding something. He’s hiding something…

He didn’t get a chance to speak.

“Where were you last night?” she demanded, voice trembling only from rage.

He placed his keys in the bowl near the door, not answering.

“You were with her again.” It wasn’t a question. “Weren’t you?”

He walked past her, heading toward the kitchen table, setting the blue poppy gently atop it.

Her eyes dropped to the flower, and something ugly twisted in her expression.

“Don’t walk away from me,” she snapped, gripping the edge of the table. “Don’t you dare.”

But he did.

He walked to the window, bracing his hands on the sill as he stared out over the city. From up here, the morning rush looked almost peaceful—tiny dots moving through the cold, each one with a place to be.

His reflection in the glass looked hollow.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted a hand slightly, fingers twitching toward her as if he wanted to reach out, a protective, silent gesture—something delicate, innocent, meant to calm, meant to connect.

But she didn’t see it. She couldn’t see it.

He didn’t say a word. Words had failed them months ago, replaced by accusations, silence, and the sinking feeling that something inside their marriage had quietly died.

Behind him, her breathing grew uneven.

The silence between them stretched thin, brittle.

“You think a flower fixes this?” she said. “You think some stupid poppy means something?”

He didn’t turn around.

Did he think it meant something? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he hoped. Maybe it was an apology, maybe a peace offering, maybe a memory of softer years. Maybe he wanted to feel something—anything—other than the suffocating emptiness.

Her hand trembled as she stepped forward. The thought, the memory, the suspicion, and the fear coiled tighter.

He’s hiding it. He’s hiding it. He’s hiding it…

Her hand closed around a glass vase.

The same vase he bought her on their second anniversary.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Tighter. The cold outside couldn’t compare to the ice settling between the walls.

“Look at me,” she said.

Look at me... Please...

He didn’t.

That was the final fracture.

With a sharp, choked sound—half sob, half scream—she lifted the vase and brought it down across his head.

The sound was sickening: glass shattering, bone meeting blunt force, breath expelling sharply from his chest as his knees buckled.

For a moment, the world went quiet.

The blue poppy, knocked from the table, slid across the floor, landing beside him. Its petals brushed against his hand like a final whisper.

But the poppy wasn’t blue anymore.

It was red—soaked in the blood pooling beneath him, spreading in dark, uneven circles across the tiles. His chest rose once, sharply, then again—shallow, losing strength.

His eyes, still open, stared at the ceiling with an expression caught between shock and sorrow.

There he was, lying on the ground, blood painting his skull, the morning sun reaching him through the window as if trying to pull him back into its warmth.

Almost perfect.

---

She stood above him, shaking violently, breath breaking in ragged gasps. The vase slipped from her fingers and hit the ground beside his head, rolling in a slow circle before settling against his shoulder.

Her fury evaporated in an instant, replaced by a kind of terrified clarity.

“Oh my God… Andrew… Andrew—”

She fell to her knees beside him, hands hovering, afraid to touch him, afraid to see exactly what she’d done.

“I didn’t mean— Andrew, I didn’t— Please—”

His blood seeped into the knees of her jeans.

When she finally reached to touch his cheek, his skin was already cooling.

A sound tore out of her—

Not a sob. Not a scream.

Something raw. Something primal.

Something irreversible.

Silence filled the room. One moment. Two moments. Three.

She staggered back, pushing herself away from him as if distance might undo the last thirty seconds. She stared at her hands—stained red. The poppy lay on the floor beside him like a witness.

She scrambled to her feet and backed toward the door, grabbing her coat with trembling hands. Her breath hitched uncontrollably as she stumbled down the stairs, the world spinning violently around her.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken. Clouds rolled over the sun, swallowing the light.

Rain started—gentle at first, a drizzle that felt like the sky whispering condolences.

Then heavier.

Harder.

By the time she reached the end of the street, it was pouring.

She stopped walking.

People rushed past her, umbrellas open, coats pulled tight. But she just stood there, drenched, trembling, her hair plastered to her face, the cold soaking into her bones.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t wipe the rain—or the blood—from her hands.

She just stood there, under the weight of the sky.

A woman in the rain.

Alone beneath the downpour, watching the final petal of the blue poppy slip from her hand—cold, red-stained, and final, like the world itself had stopped.