The shop was quiet on a sunny morning, filled only with the scent of jasmine. Adam entered with hesitant steps, as if he were intruding into a world that wasn't his. Layla, as usual, sat behind the wooden counter, arranging a small bouquet of white roses.
She lifted her eyes to him, giving a fleeting smile:
— "Hello, Adam… back again."
He didn't reply, just nodded and sat in his usual corner, at the small table by the window. He held his coffee cup, staring outside, while the sound of Layla's scissors snipping the stems echoed through the shop like a steady rhythm.
Minutes passed, then she suddenly said:
— "You know… your presence here has become almost like a daily habit. Even the flowers have started to remember your steps."
He turned to her, slightly embarrassed, and gave a faint smile. He didn't know how to respond.
She didn't stop, continuing with calm playfulness:
— "It's strange… most people come to the shop looking for a flower for someone else. And you… you come just to sit. You don't ask for anything."
He hesitated for a moment, then said softly:
— "Maybe… because I have no one to give a flower to."
A short silence followed, before she replied with a warm smile:
— "Then… maybe you need to give a flower to yourself."
He looked at her for a long moment, feeling as if her words had created a small crack in the wall of silence within him. He wasn't ready to speak more, yet he found himself saying:
— "Sometimes… I find comfort in this place that I don't find anywhere else."
Layla didn't comment, simply resumed arranging the flowers, but her smile lingered, as if she understood what he hadn't said.
In that moment, Adam realized he had begun to grow accustomed to her presence… a simple presence, yet different, leaving an imprint inside him that refused to fade.