The morning sun filtered through Liam's apartment windows, warm and golden, dust motes swirling in its glow. Esme stood at the kitchen counter, cradling a chipped mug of coffee in both hands. Liam had left just after sunrise, his footsteps quiet, his expression unreadable. He didn't say much, just a soft, "I'll be back later," and a lingering glance that made her stomach twist in knots she refused to name.
The silence that remained in his absence was thick. Esme had spent the first few hours house-hunting, clicking through listings on his old laptop. Most places were too far, too noisy, too impersonal. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt safe.
Eventually, she closed the laptop and let it rest beside her on the couch. Her fingertips tingled with restless energy. She wasn't used to stillness. Her days were usually filled with movement, tending to the shop, pruning stems, arranging bouquets with precision. Now, every minute stretched like taffy.
Curiosity got the better of her.
She wandered the apartment with the tentative wonder of someone treading on sacred ground. Not snooping, not really. Just... noticing. A watch left on the dresser. A small scratch on the hallway wall. A photograph tucked behind a candle — Liam with a woman and a child. The woman had his eyes. The child, no older than ten, clung to his hand with wide, adoring eyes.
He never mentioned family.
She moved on, brushing her fingers lightly along the spines of the books lining his shelves. Most were police procedure manuals, thick crime novels, and war history. But nestled near the end of the row, she spotted it: The Knight and the Garden. Her heart skipped.
She pulled it out gently. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed. She'd read it so many times as a child that she'd memorized whole passages. A fantasy novel about a girl who spoke to flowers and a knight who couldn't dream. She smiled despite herself.
Liam? Reading this?
She opened to the first page. The dedication read: To my daughter—may you never stop believing in wild things. Her throat tightened. She closed the book carefully and tucked it under her arm. A part of her hoped it had been his favorite too. A part of her just wanted a reason to ask.
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Liam stood outside the widow's home, notebook in hand. The woman looked pale, thin, grief etched into the lines of her face like glass cracks.
"She had a heart condition," she said softly, hands trembling around a photo frame. "But the doctor said she was stable. She was doing well."
Liam nodded. "Can you tell me about the day she passed?"
The woman blinked, gathering her thoughts. "It was her birthday. Someone sent flowers. The most perfect bouquet I've ever seen. Purple lilies, foxglove, belladonna. Said they were from an old friend. The florist delivered them herself. Said she was just being kind."
Liam's pen froze.
"Do you remember the florist's name?"
"I don't. But she was beautiful. Quiet. Wore gloves, I think. Odd, now that I think of it."
His heartbeat was thunder in his ears. "Do you still have the flowers?"
The widow shook her head. "I threw them out after the funeral. I couldn't look at them."
He thanked her, voice hollow, and stepped out into the fading light. The florist. Beautiful. Gloves. Esme.
He ran a hand over his face.
No. It was coincidence. It had to be.
Right?
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The scent of ginger and sesame wafted through the apartment when he opened the door that night, a paper bag clutched in his arms. Esme was curled up on the couch with a blanket over her knees and The Knight and the Garden in her lap.
"You read that?" she asked, nodding toward the book as he set the takeout on the table.
He glanced at it. "My sister's favorite. Used to read it to her when we were kids."
Her heart gave a quiet jolt.
"She had good taste," Esme murmured, rising to help him unpack the food. Their fingers brushed when they reached for the same box. Neither pulled away immediately.
They ate in relative silence, the television casting flickers of light across their faces. A romantic comedy was playing—something old and familiar. Esme laughed softly at a scene where the leads danced in a kitchen, half-drunk and barefoot.
"You ever dance like that?" Liam asked, looking at her over his chopsticks.
She shrugged. "Only with ghosts."
His gaze lingered. "You're full of riddles."
"And you're full of silence."
Their eyes locked. Something unspoken hummed between them, fragile and dangerous.
Later, as she rinsed their plates, she noticed the tension in his shoulders had returned. He was watching her, but not with desire—not yet. With doubt.
She wondered what he saw when he looked at her now.
A guest? A mystery? A suspect?
She toweled her hands dry. "Long day?"
"Yeah," he said. "Talked to a widow. Her wife died suddenly. Said someone delivered her flowers the same day."
Her spine stiffened. "That's… sad."
He watched her reaction carefully. Too carefully.
"Yeah," he said again. "Strange timing."
Esme turned away before he could read her face. "I'll head to bed."
He nodded, but didn't move.
Back in the guest room, Esme sat on the bed in the dark, the memory of the scarf she couldn't save tightening in her throat. She pressed her palms against her chest. She couldn't fall apart again. Not tonight.
Through the wall, she heard Liam shift, his footsteps slow. A soft knock came a minute later. She didn't answer.
"I'll be outside," he said. "If you need anything."
She lay down, clutching the book to her chest, pretending it was armor. But sleep didn't come.
She wasn't sure it ever would again.