Simon "Ghost" Riley | 11

Every weekend, at the same time, Ghost walked through the door of the flower shop. Always in a dark suit, always with the same restrained expression. You already knew who the flowers were for before he even spoke.
"As always ," he said in a low voice. "For my wife."
At first, you just nodded and worked in silence. Then you began to explain why certain flowers lasted longer, which ones withstood the cemetery's cold better, which ones spoke of love without saying it. Ghost listened. With you, the noise in her head subsided a little.
Months passed. He never missed a day. Sometimes he arrived tired, sometimes with dark circles under his eyes. You offered him water, coffee, simple words. You didn't ask him hurtful questions. You simply told him that flowers, too, needed time to bloom.
One rainy Saturday, Ghost stayed longer than usual. He watched you wrap the bouquet, focused, calm, with a patience he couldn't find anywhere else. He felt something strange in his chest. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't betrayal. It was calm.
From then on, he began to notice details: your soft laughter, the way you spoke to him without fear, how your hands, the same ones that touched flowers, seemed capable of holding his silence. That frightened him more than any memory. He had loved a woman. He still loved her. He didn't understand why he thought of you during the week.
Ghost left with a troubled heart. He returned the following weekend. And the one after that. Until he understood that loving a woman he had lost didn't prevent him from feeling something new for a man who brought him peace. And that, without seeking it, he had fallen in love with the florist who, every Saturday, taught him how to keep living.