Esme
The bell above the flower shop door chimed, soft and familiar, but it startled her today.
She glanced up from the rose bouquet she was arranging—cream petals nestled beside bleeding-heart blossoms—and forced a smile at the older woman who stepped in, cradling a wrapped gift in her arms. Esme welcomed her, rang up the bouquet, exchanged pleasantries, and as the door closed behind her customer, the smile fell off her face like petals in frost.
The shop had felt colder these last two days. Not physically—she kept the temperature carefully regulated for the flowers—but in the way the air refused to settle. Like something unseen stirred it, shifting its rhythm just slightly off-beat.
She paused, letting her eyes drift past the front windows. Across the street, a van idled. Again.
Same one from yesterday.
Black. Tinted windows. No movement.
It might've been nothing. The bakery next door had decent parking, and city folk often took naps in their vehicles. But still—two days. Same spot. Same silence. She tried to remember if the driver ever got out.
She couldn't.
She pressed her lips together, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned her back to the windows. Her mother used to say that suspicion was like rust—it ate at you from the inside out if you let it. But Helena had also taught her to never ignore instinct.
And her instincts were coiling tighter every minute.
A whisper of lavender and yew drifted from the shelf behind her. Soothing, familiar. She inhaled deeply and tried to calm the storm building under her ribs.
You're being paranoid.
The words settled heavy and hollow in her head.
"Esme," she whispered aloud, grounding herself, "get a grip."
She forced herself back to work—binding stems, trimming thorns, arranging petals with careful fingers. She kept her back to the window.
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Outside, the two men in the parked van were watching. One through a pair of smudged sunglasses, the other with a hand resting on the dashboard, drumming a slow beat with his fingers.
"She's got good instincts," the driver muttered. "Keeps checking the window."
"Still alone though," the other replied. "No alarm systems. Just flowers."
He chuckled under his breath. "Bet she smells real sweet."
"You know what the boss said," came the warning. "Rattle her. Shake her loose. That's it."
"Yeah, yeah. But if she resists…" The smile in his voice was thin and oily.
The driver turned to look at him. "We don't touch her unless we have to. We're not trying to start a war with whoever took out Mateo."
There was silence between them for a long beat.
Finally, the other man said, "She doesn't look dangerous."
The driver snorted. "Neither does a garden snake."
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Across the street, a few feet behind the van, Liam watched from his own car.
He sipped black coffee gone cold. His jaw was locked in tension.
He'd seen the van yesterday too. Had written it off at first—too easy to let shadows blur together. But they were still here today. And now, something about their posture, the way they leaned in when Esme moved… it twisted something in his gut.
He didn't like it.
He should've gone over. Asked questions. Flashed his badge. Something. But he didn't. Because if he was wrong, he'd spook her. And if he was right…?
If he was right, he couldn't afford to act until he had proof.
He didn't realize he was clenching his fist until the paper coffee cup crumpled slightly in his hand.
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Esme stood at the counter and looked at the clock. 6:43 p.m.
Her hand hovered over her phone. For a second, she considered calling someone. But who?
She had no friends left in this part of the city. Her mother had taught her to live like shadows—quiet, intentional, always alone.
She sighed and moved to the back room, grabbing her coat from the hook. As she reached for the light, she paused.
Something felt… still. Too still.
Usually, the room smelled faintly of lavender and crushed fern leaves from the drying bundles hanging in the corner. But now, the air felt void. Like a stage waiting for the curtain to rise.
She clicked off the light quickly and walked out. Locked the door behind her. Slipped the keys into her pocket and tried not to look across the street.
But she did.
The van was gone.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Gone was good. Right?
Then why did it feel worse?
——————————————————
Liam watched her leave. She was walking slower than usual. Her shoulders stiff, like she was holding her breath beneath her skin.
He wanted to follow. Just to be sure.
But something told him—don't do it too soon.
He waited, giving her a full block's head start before starting the engine and slipping into the stream of traffic behind her.
——————————————————
Esme walked past the familiar streets, but her mind was distant.
The long way home.
It wasn't always smart to take detours in this part of the city after dark, but tonight she needed to think. Something in her bones was shifting, warning her. She didn't know if it was about the shop, or the dream she had last night—her mother's voice, whispering in a field of black lilies—or the fact that Liam had been on her mind more often than she cared to admit.
It didn't matter.
The longer path wound through residential neighborhoods, empty parks, and quiet backstreets. It was peaceful. Usually.
Tonight, it felt… wrong.
She didn't notice the footsteps behind her at first. She was too lost in her thoughts.
Too busy hearing her mother's voice in her head again.
"Some flowers survive fire. But not all. Know the difference. Know which ones burn."
She blinked, refocusing.
There was a slight shuffle behind her.
She paused. Listened.
Silence.
A leaf skittered across the sidewalk.
Esme turned her head slightly. No one there.
But the chill in her spine had rooted deep.
She picked up her pace, wrapping her coat tighter around her. Her boots clicked against the concrete with growing urgency. Streetlights flickered as she passed. The kind of flicker that always felt like a warning.
Behind her, the footsteps returned—soft, deliberate, and multiplying.
She didn't turn.
She didn't need to.
They were there.
And she was alone.