Page 119 of Veil of Smoke

They laugh, a nervous ripple, and I feel the warmth here, easy now, no walls left to keep up. I slide a card across, violet peonies sketched in ink.

The groom shifts, scratching his neck.

“He said no red roses,” the bride giggles, nudging him. “Says they’re too traditional.”

I nod, trimming a stem with a quick snip. “He wants you to feel like it’s your own story,” I say, glancing at him. “I get it.”

She beams, and I set down a violet peony, its petals open wide, soft edges curling. “This one means resurrection,” I say, my voice steady, sure. “Some stories don’t start until the fire.”

They exchange a look, soft and knowing, and I feel it too, the echo of my own story in theirs. I stack another card—white ranunculus—and let them dream aloud.

My gaze drifts past them, catching the wall behind the counter. A framed clipping hangs there, the ribbon cutting from Ash & Bloom’s first day, edges yellowed but sharp.

In the shop mirror’s reflection, I glimpse Dario in the back room, his head bent over the workbench. He sharpens scissors in rhythm to faint jazz humming from the old record player, its needle scratching soft.

He catches my eye in the glass, winking quick, and I roll mine, but my smile lingers, tugging at my lips. I turn back to the couple, sliding their order into the ledger.

The bride picks a mix—peonies, eucalyptus, a few marigolds—and I jot it down, the pencil scratching steady.

“June wedding?” I ask, glancing up.

“First Saturday,” she says, grinning, and I nod, marking it, the date a small anchor in our quiet life.

They thank me, heading out, and the bell over the door jingles behind them, a bright chime cutting through the morning. I exhale, brushing my hands on my apron, soil smudging the fabric.

I step to the back, the floorboards creaking soft under my boots. Dario looks up, setting the scissors down, his shirt flecked with sawdust.

“You just booked us for a June wedding, didn’t you?” he says, his voice low, a grin tugging his mouth.

I lean on the doorway, smirking. “With plenty of peonies.”

He lifts an eyebrow, leaning back on the stool. “You planning to write the vows, too?”

“Only if they let me add threats,” I say, crossing my arms, my tone dry but warm.

He chuckles, a sound that rolls easy through the room, and stands, closing the gap between us. His hands find my waist, steady and familiar.

We kiss, not heated, not a show—just us, present, the taste of him mingling with the jasmine in the air. I pull back, resting my forehead against his for a beat.

I step away, moving to the doorway, and survey the front of the shop. Sunlight spills over fresh petals, jazz notes rise soft, and the world keeps turning, steady outside.

Early spring warmth threads through the open door, wind chimes tapping faint, a breeze scattering petals across the sidewalk. I watch them drift, pink and white against the gray.

The buckets gleam along the walls, steel catching the light, and I see the flowers, not a shield anymore, but a craft I’ve chosen, a life I’ve shaped.

I used to think this place was a cage, a corner to hide in. Now it’s a root, deep and wild, holding me where I stand.

Dario steps beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, and I feel him, steady as the shop, a partner in this bloom we’ve built.

The ledger sits open on the counter, orders scratched in my hand, and I trace a line with my finger, feeling the ink, the permanence of it.

The chimes ring again, soft and clear, and I breathe in the air, jasmine and wood, a scent that’s ours, woven into these walls.

I clip a ranunculus stem, setting it in a jar, its white petals bright against the green. The shop hums around me, alive, thriving, not just surviving.

Dario leans on the counter, watching me work, his hands still, his presence quiet. I catch his eye, and he grins, small but real.

I used to flinch at every shadow, every stranger’s step. Now I stand here, open, steady, a woman who’s walked through fire and come out whole.

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