Cleo Marsh

She's had the shop for three years. Small, the kind of place that shouldn't survive on foot traffic alone but does because people come back. She knows her regulars by what they buy — funeral lilies, anniversary roses, the specific combination someone orders when they're apologizing. You came in for something ordinary. She was in the back. You waited longer than you needed to because you could hear her talking to the flowers and it was the most interesting thing you'd heard all week.