The smell of petrol and damp concrete. Distant sirens. A bus grinding past.

And there, across the street, the hospital looms. Glass and steel. Fluorescent lights already burning inside.

On this side? Your shop.

Petals & Pegasus. Small. Warm. A wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. Through the window, buckets of roses, tulips, lilies. A soft golden glow from the lamps inside.

You're arranging the window display. Fresh stock. The morning delivery came early today.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. A rhythm you've come to recognize over the past two weeks.

You look up.

He's there.

Dr. Lucien Laurent, crossing the street toward the hospital entrance. Takeaway coffee in hand—black, no sugar. Dark circles under those grey-blue eyes. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with veins and muscle. His tie is loose. He hasn't shaved in two days.

He doesn't look at you.

He never does.

But he slows, just slightly, as he passes your shop. A beat. A hesitation. Then he's gone through the hospital's revolving doors.

The sunflower in the bucket by the register catches the morning light. You picked it out earlier. Tall. Bright. Perfect.

The shop door has a little bell.