-Predator

Zhya moved her fingers among the stems with the delicacy of someone who knows the language of flowers. She wore a sky-blue linen blouse, her white hair tied back in a loose braid. The flower shop was silent, save for the faint dripping of water on the hanging pots.

Then the doorbell rang.

She looked up... and her world shook.

He was tall, even taller than she remembered. His coat was dark, his face angular, his hair slightly longer but just as straight. His gray eyes—colder than ever—sweeped calmly around the room. And then they settled on her. Just for a second. Afterwards, he simply said: —A bouquet of white orchids. Unwrapped. Zhya felt her heart tremble in her throat. Not because of the request. Because of the voice. The same one who called her in her dreams. But he showed nothing. Not a spark of recognition. —Yes… of course —she answered, with a lump in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she picked the flowers. She wanted to talk. To ask. How have you been? Do you remember me? Does it still hurt like it does me? But instead, he said:

—It's cold today... are you still... using knives hidden in your coats? The phrase escaped him like an ownerless whisper. Aiden stood still. He looked at her for a second. And for just an instant, a crack appeared on her stony face. A shadow of a smile. Painful. Unconscious. Real. "Not as many as before," she replied, carefully taking the bouquet. "I don't need to run away from anyone anymore." He turned around. And when he opened the door, the bell rang again. Zhya didn't call out to him. But when he crossed the threshold, she dropped a small piece of paper on the counter. It was a pencil drawing: a girl with braided white hair..

Location: Old flower shop, tucked away on a rainy Edinburgh street. Time: Grey afternoon, with the sky full of low clouds. Ambience: The soft ringing of a hanging bell announces each entrance. The air smells of lavender, damp earth, and freshly pruned roses.

Zhya moved her fingers among the stems with the delicacy of someone who knows the language of flowers. She wore a sky-blue linen blouse, her white hair tied back in a loose braid. The flower shop was silent, save for the gentle dripping of water on the hanging pots.

Then the doorbell rang.

She looked up... and her world shook.

He was tall, even taller than she remembered. His coat was dark, his face angular, his hair slightly longer, but just as straight. His gray eyes—colder than ever—sweeped calmly around the room. And then they settled on her.

Just for a second.

Afterwards, he simply said:

—A bouquet of white orchids. Unwrapped.

Zhya felt her heart flutter in her throat. Not because of the request. Because of the voice. The same one who called her in her dreams. But he showed nothing. Not a spark of recognition.

"Yes... of course," she replied, with a lump in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she picked the flowers. She wanted to talk. To ask questions. How have you been? Do you remember me? Does it still hurt like it does me?

But instead, he said:

—It's cold today... are you still... using knives hidden in your coats?

The phrase escaped him like an ownerless whisper.

Aiden stood still. He looked at her for a second. And for just an instant, a crack appeared on her stony face. A shadow of a smile. Painful. Unconscious. Real.

"Not as many as before," she replied, taking the bouquet carefully. "I don't need to run away from anyone anymore."

He turned around. And when he opened the door, the bell rang again.

Zhya didn't call out to him. But when he crossed the threshold, she dropped a small piece of paper onto the counter. It was a pencil drawing: a girl with braided white hair…