The next morning, Daphne woke to a cold bed. The space beside her was empty.
Then, she saw them.
On her bedside table, where a single, fresh bouquet usually sat, there were now three distinct bouquets of flowers.
They were a riot of color, deep red roses, white lilies, and blue forget-me-nots, their petals still damp with the morning dew. A small, neatly folded piece of paper was tucked into the ribbons of the middle bouquet.
Her heart hammering against her ribs, she reached for it. The paper was cool to the touch. She unfolded it, her eyes scanning the familiar, elegant script.
The note was short and simple, but its meaning was a confession.
"Three bouquets for every day I missed you."
The last three days. The days he had been cold, silent, and distant. He had also been counting. Every day of his silent anger was a day he had missed her.
