Page 2 of Veil of Smoke

I place the slip on the counter and sign the last of my delivery receipts. A few clients picked up early. One canceled, no-show. The supplier from West End still hasn’t delivered the orchids I requested for Friday’s funeral wreaths. That’s two days now. Unusual. But not unheard of.

I pull out my phone to call.

It goes to voicemail.

I leave a short message. Clipped. Professional. With the right undertone of irritation. Then I set the phone down, wipe my hands, and try to return to the bouquet.

But my rhythm stutters.

The stems don’t sit quite right. The symmetry’s off. And when I try to tighten the ribbon, it snaps in my hand.

I mutter a curse and reach for a fresh one, breath steady, precise.

I tuck the original ribbon into my apron pocket—and brush against the slip.

Still there. Still in my hand.

I’m halfway through a new wrap when I feel the sting.

A thorn pierces the pad of my finger, sudden and sharp.

Blood wells fast, dark against skin. A single drop splashes onto the tile. It sits there—bright, refusing to soak in.

A red petal drops a moment later, landing just beside it.

Color against color. Petal beside blood.

I close my eyes, and I’m twelve again. Standing in front of a closed casket, the scent of gardenias thick as glue. The chaplain’s voice is muffled. My father’s badge lies in velvet, folded with his flag. Camila sobs next to me, makeup streaked, mascara bleeding.

I shake it off and press a paper towel to my finger. The wound’s small. Not deep. Still, it throbs.

I glance toward the windows.

The golden light outside slants longer now, stretching across the pavement. And across the street, for the briefest second, a black car idles.

It’s sleek. Out of place.

Then it’s gone.

The bell above the door stays still. No footsteps. No engine.

Just absence.

My throat tightens, but I don’t give in to the shiver that rides my spine. I walk calmly to the door and flip the sign.

Closed.

Early, but I’m done for the day. Orders filled. Bouquets wrapped. The place smells too sweet anyway. Too full of things that aren’t answers.

I lock the door and draw the blinds halfway, enough to mute the outside but not dim the space completely. The last of the sun stains the hardwood floors in bands of gold and shadow. The slip sits on the counter. Bare. Undemanding. Still.

I place it beneath the till and move through the shop, resetting. Vases rinsed. Leaves swept. A few petals tucked into compost. My hands go through motions honed by habit, but my mind’s gone tight, knotted like twine pulled wrong.

I dial the supplier again. On the third ring, I hang up.

The orchids won’t come today.

Near the register, the framed badge gleams. My father’s name etched in steel. Cleaned every week. Respected always. I hold his gaze in the photograph next to it, the one where he’s smiling faintly—just one side of his mouth, like he knew more than he said.

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