It was one of those damned rains—the kind that felt like it was trying to pull memories out from between the cracks in the asphalt.

And me? As usual, soaked hair, crooked smile, taking shelter in the flower shop.

“Lia, you’re late again!”

Margaret clicked her tongue, but well… she knows how I am. One smile, one dimple, and the world spins again.

Rain kept hammering the windows. In that wet, green-scented air, I was bundling chrysanthemums when the bell above the door rang.

I looked up. A man walked in.

His coat was soaked, hair slightly stuck to his forehead.

The look he gave me—it lasted a second, but it burned straight through me.

Calm eyes, but heavy with things unsaid.

For a few moments, the rain was the only thing breaking the silence of the world.

He looked around the shop.

And I looked at him.

Finally, he spoke:

— “I need a bouquet. Five red roses, wrapped in black paper.”

Oh, what a romantic man.

I smiled and said,

“Sure. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

His eyes lingered on my face.

It seemed like he wanted to say something, but he just nodded slightly and stepped back out.

He stood in front of the shop and lit a cigarette.

I couldn’t stop watching him—until he turned and caught me staring.

What am I doing?

I shook my head and muttered under my breath,

“Get a grip, Lia. He’s just a man.”

Then I got back to preparing his bouquet…

My hands carefully arranged the petals, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

Each time a thorn pricked my finger, it pulled me back to the moment.

Focus, Lia. Focus.

The roses—deep red, like dried blood on velvet.

I wrapped them slowly in black paper, adding a golden ribbon for no reason other than a feeling—something inside whispered it had to be there, whether he wanted it or not.

I picked up the bouquet and walked toward the door.

He was still there.

The rain had eased, but droplets still clung to the ends of his hair.

His half-burnt cigarette curled smoke between his fingers, and his eyes…

They met mine.

Not rude, not warm—just… precise.

I held the bouquet out to him.

— “Here are your flowers, sir.”

He took it with his cold hands.

Paused for a moment.

Then, in a low voice, he asked:

— “That golden ribbon… was that your choice?”

I froze for a second.

Why did he ask that?

I gave a faint smile.

— “Yeah. I just felt like… it needed to be there.”

His eyes dropped to the flowers, then slowly rose to meet mine.

He looked at me as if he was trying to read something behind my eyes.

— “You have a very warm energy… flower girl.”

Before I could say anything, he turned and walked away.

No goodbye. No glance back.

Just the sound of his footsteps…

and the scent of wet earth

and blood-colored flowers lingering in the air.

By the end of the night, the shop was crowded,

but my mind was still there—

with the man whose name I didn’t know,

yet something told me… this was just the beginning.

And that night,

when I turned off the last light in the shop,

even the sound of the rain felt different—

like a secret sleeping beneath the skin of the city.

And I… had no idea I was about to wake it.

I locked up the shop, and the click of the door felt like a new page turning in my mind. I slipped the key into my pocket and shoved my hands deep into my coat.

The rain had finally stopped, but the air still smelled like something tired and wet.

The streets shimmered, reflecting the half-clouded sky like mirrors.

I started walking.

My feet moved aimlessly, but something in the night was calling me…

Like the city itself was whispering:

Come closer… just a little more.

Each step pulled me further from the routine of my day.

There was a strange feeling building inside me—

a quiet mix of sorrow and curiosity.

A soft shiver ran through my bones—

maybe from the cold,

maybe from the thought of him.

That look.

That silence.

That low, calm voice.

Damn it… why can’t I stop thinking about him?

He wasn’t the kind of man you could just forget.

There was something behind his eyes—

something wounded.

Something… familiar.

I reached a narrow alley tucked between two tall buildings.

From across the street, the drunken laughter of a few men echoed faintly.

I walked on, distracted—

but when I realized someone was close behind me, my breath caught in my throat.

Then I heard a voice in my ear:

— “Doesn’t seem like the best street for walking alone.”

I spun around fast.

My heart leapt to my throat.

It was him.

Same long coat.

Same damp hair.

Same eyes.

I had no idea where he came from.

No footsteps, no sound.

He just… appeared.

Like he’d stepped out of the dark itself.

— “Did you follow me?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

He smiled. Not warm, not cold—just… unreadable.

— “If I had followed you,” he said softly,

“you’d never have known.”

Before I could respond, sharp footsteps echoed behind us.

I turned.

One of the drunk men from before was staring at me now.

There was something in his eyes I didn’t want to understand.

The guy—that guy—stepped forward once.

Something in the way he moved made the drunk freeze.

He hesitated, muttered something under his breath, and turned back toward the street.

I exhaled. Finally.

The guy was still standing beside me.

He leaned in, and his voice dropped to a whisper:

— “This city is more than it appears, Lia.”

My name.

How does he know my name?

I froze.

My lips parted but no sound came out.

He just gave me one last look—

and walked past me into the night.

I moved toward him, ready to ask something—

but as he turned into the alley…

he was gone.

Only the fading sound of his footsteps lingered,

blending into the night.

And I…

was left standing in the middle of a quiet, rain-soaked city,

with a thousand questions spinning in my head.

The sudden return of rain snapped me out of it.

I looked down the dark, glistening street—

but he wasn’t there.

Not even the echo of his steps remained.

Only me, the rain,

and the cold, silent night.

I started walking again.

My feet moved across the pavement,

but my mind…

was somewhere else.

Lost in a world of questions and doubt.

How did he know my name?

Did he know me?

And if he did…

why couldn’t I remember him?

Had he been to the flower shop before?

I wasn’t sure.

But something about him felt familiar—

a blurry, distant echo I couldn’t quite reach.

Mary’s voice pulled me back to reality like a taut rope.

I found myself standing at the front door. It opened, and there she was—Mary, with her usual warm, worried eyes fixed on me.

I caught her gaze and pulled myself together. Mary was the one who had filled the silence after my father’s death and my mother’s departure.

That day—when my mother handed me over to Mary—still lived vividly in my heart. The day everything changed.

Mary’s voice distracted me again:

“You’ve been thinking too much lately… You need to work on yourself a bit!”

I gave her a crooked, tired smile and said hello.

Just as I was about to step inside, something flashed in the corner of my eye—like someone was watching me.

I turned around… but no one was there.

I brushed it off and closed the door behind me.

I walked into the kitchen, and music flooded my ears. A cheerful, upbeat song—the kind I always loved to play while cooking.

I washed my hands thoroughly and started preparing dinner. Nothing fancy, but made with care.

Mary joined me, wearing that same comforting smile.

We sat together, shared the food, talked, laughed.

Later, we curled up in front of the TV, picked out an old comedy to lighten the mood.

After all the laughter, the dinner, and the movie, Mary stood up and said she was heading to bed.

I smiled, leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered:

“Goodnight, my sweet old lady. I love you.”

She chuckled in her warm, worn-out tone:

“Goodnight, little rascal… Don’t overthink. Just sleep.”

I opened my bedroom door and stepped inside gently.

The room smelled familiar and comforting—like the dried flowers on the corner of my desk, and the soft glow of my bedside lamp painting dreams on the wall.

I played a song—a melody that always made me feel alive.

I tied my hair up in a messy bun and stood in the center of the room.

Slowly, as if the world belonged only to me, I began to twirl.

My steps were light, like feathers. My hands sliced through the air. A small joy bloomed in my chest.

One more spin, and my eyes landed on the window.

I stopped.

Felt like I was being watched.

Slowly, I walked over and opened it.

Cool night air brushed against my face, but the street outside was quiet and dark… no one was there.

Just the rain. Just the silence. Just me.

I squinted, trying to see through the darkness.

But no.

Just my imagination.

I shut the window.

The click of the glass sounded like the end of a dream.

I was tired.

I turned off the music and dropped onto the bed.

My hand reached for the stuffed toy that always sat there—the one my dad had given me, back when the world felt kinder.

I hugged it close, as if that fragment of memory could still soothe me.

My eyelids grew heavy.

But just as sleep was pulling me under…

A sound echoed through the night.

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