"I'm sorry, Pa. I have to leave early today — Mrs. Simone wants her flowers delivered as early as possible," I said softly, pressing a kiss to Papa's forehead.
His eyes didn't move.
They never did.
But I liked to believe he still heard me. That deep down, some part of him still knew who I was. That my voice still reached the father who once danced with me barefoot in our old living room.
I grabbed my bag, adjusted the strap over my shoulder, and hurried out into the morning light.
The pickup van was already idling out front, and the driver leaned against the door, checking his watch.
"Sorry, I'm late!" I called, breathless as I fumbled with the shop keys.
The scent of petals and pollen rushed out as I unlocked the door, greeting me like an old friend.
Inside, it was the same soft chaos: buckets of lilies and marigolds, roses packed tight like secrets, stems trimmed and twine-wrapped.
I moved quickly, handing bunch after bunch to the delivery guy, who stacked them neatly in the back of the truck.
"That's the last one," I said, handing him a wrapped bouquet of pale daisies.
He nodded, grateful. "Thanks, Poppy. You saved my morning."
I gave him a small smile and stepped back as the truck pulled away from the curb.
Just another delivery. Just another day.
I said it out loud like a mantra — my twisted way of pretending my life didn't suck. I mean, I was twenty-two, no college degree, no inheritance (unless you count the debts my parents left behind), and a flower shop that barely stayed afloat. One parent gone, the other one stuck in a hospital bed, eyes open but no one home.
Yeah. A real fairytale.
But I kept going. Because that's what people like me do.
I walked back inside the shop and began arranging the flowers. Tulips, daffodils, roses with their thorns half-trimmed. They just bloomed.
I grabbed the old broom and swept the porch. Tiny yellow petals floated into the air like dust, and I paused for a second, watching the sunlight catch on them. Then I went back in, grabbed an old fantasy novel — dragons, swords, magic — the usual. I wasn't really into it. I just needed something to distract me from the silence.
About thirty minutes in, the bell over the door jingled. Someone had stepped inside.
"Good morning! How can I help you?" I called, still buried in the pages.
No answer.
I looked up.
He was tall. Too tall — the kind of tall that makes ceilings feel shorter and people feel smaller. He stood just inside the door, wearing a black baseball cap, head dipped low. His broad shoulders almost touched the narrow doorframe. He didn't speak. Didn't even look at me.
He strolled around the shop, pausing near the poppies. His hand hovered, then he grabbed a bunch and brought them to the counter.
"I'll have that wrapped up for you," I said, slipping behind the counter and pulling out the brown paper and twine.
I glanced up.
He was staring out the window, not at me. His whole presence was... off. Not dangerous, not rude — just heavy, like he was made of grief.
I kept my voice light. "For your girlfriend?"
That made him pause.
Slowly, he turned to look at me.
And I saw it.
His face.
Pale. Cold. Carved in a way that didn't feel human. A jagged scar ran across his cheek like someone had dragged a broken bottle across his skin. It wasn't one of those cinematic, pretty scars. It was raw. Real. Ugly.
But somehow, I couldn't look away.
Did it hurt?
I didn't mean to stare, but I had. I was still staring when he placed the cash on the counter.
"Oh—I'm sorry, I—"
"No."
His voice was rough. Like gravel. Like he hadn't used it in weeks.
"What?"
He looked right at me this time.
"No girlfriend."
He picked up the bouquet, turned, and walked out the door — leaving the money behind.
The doorbell jingled again as it shut.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where he'd just been.
Poppies.
Why did he choose poppies?
They were the least sold flowers in the shop.
Some just withered away on the shelves, petals falling off before anyone ever gave them a second glance. Nobody liked poppies. I knew that, but I still grew them — every season, like clockwork.
Not because I thought someone would buy them.
Because they were hers.
Ma loved poppies — the flowers nobody else loved.
That was Ma for you.
She had a heart for the overlooked, the forgotten, the odd.
She used to say,
"I don't just follow the crowd. I like what they miss."
And she didn't just name me after them.
She called me Poppy. Like it was my real name.
It wasn't.
My birth name is Racquel. But no one ever calls me that.
Not anymore.
So when this tall, scar-faced stranger walked into my quiet, fading flower shop — didn't say much, barely looked me in the eye —
and picked out a bunch of poppies…
My heart stopped for a second.
Why those?
Why the one flower no one cared about?