A few hours before Joel's death...
The flower shop was quiet.
It had been quiet since Rowan left — since the door had closed and the sound of his uneven footsteps had faded into the fog and the street had gone still again.
Joel stood in the middle of the shop and remained still for a long time.
He was not looking at anything in particular. His eyes moved slowly across the room — across the overturned shelves, the broken clay pots scattered across the floor, the soil spilt out of them in dark fans across the wooden boards. Crushed petals. Bent wire. A single dried flower that had survived the fight intact, lying on its side near the door as though it had simply decided to lie down.
The candle had gone out while Rowan was still there.
Joel had lit a fresh one after he left. It sat on the counter now, burning steadily, throwing a small warm circle of light that did not reach the corners of the room.
He looked at his hand.
