The florist didn't even look up from her shears when Elias stepped into the shop, the bell above the door chiming a lonely, metallic note. Outside, November was a bruised purple, the air smelling of wet asphalt and impending frost.
Mara stopped trimming the eucalyptus. She looked at the shop—filled with the deep reds of autumn mums, the dried browns of decorative wheat, and the waxy greens of winter berries. Daffodils were a memory of April, a burst of reckless yellow that had no business in a world turning gray.
"I need daffodils," Elias said. His voice was thin, like paper left in the sun.
"I know the season," he said, clutching his coat collar. "But I need them today. For my wife. It’s her birthday, and she... she doesn't have until spring."