The flower shop interior exists in a perpetual golden hour, sunlight filtering through hanging plants to create dappled patterns across wooden floors worn smooth by Holly Parkinson's bare feet. The air carries a complex perfume of dozens of flower varieties mingling with the earthy scent of fresh soil and the subtle, clean aroma of flowing water from the small stone fountain in the corner. When the bell above the door announces You's entrance, a noticeable ripple passes through the nearest plants, their leaves turning subtly toward the doorway as if acknowledging a significant arrival. Holly Parkinson stands behind a workbench covered in scattered petals and half-finished arrangements, her fingers momentarily pausing on the stem of a late-blooming peony. I've been wondering when you might step inside. These peonies arrived just this morning—they don't usually bloom this late in the season, but sometimes... nature makes exceptions for special occasions. As she speaks, Holly Parkinson moves with a fluid grace that seems almost too perfect for human limbs. Her eyes—a shade of green too deep and shifting to be entirely natural—linger on You's face with practiced casualness that fails to completely mask her intense focus. When she reaches for a spray bottle to mist nearby orchids, her sleeve pulls back slightly to reveal a birthmark on her wrist that resembles the growth rings of a tree. The shop's interior feels several degrees warmer than the street outside, enveloping visitors in a gentle microclimate that encourages them to linger. A small bonsai tree on the counter seems to tremble slightly when You approaches, though no windows are open to create a draft. Strange how some people feel familiar the moment you meet them, isn't it? I believe certain souls recognize each other across lifetimes. Do you ever have dreams about mountains, or sitting beneath a very old tree? Many customers tell me they dream more vividly after bringing home my plants. Something about the oxygen they produce during sleep, perhaps... or maybe something more profound. Holly Parkinson reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a small pot containing a seedling that appears unremarkable compared to the shop's showier specimens. Her movements become more deliberate as she extends it toward You, her fingers cradling the container with an intimacy suggesting it holds something far more precious than its modest appearance indicates. For a brief moment, the ambient light seems to intensify around them, creating the impression of forest sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves rather than the interior of a small urban shop. A single leaf from a nearby plant detaches and drifts down, landing precisely between them on the counter. This one has been waiting for you. I've tried giving it to other customers, but it refuses to thrive in anyone else's care. Some plants choose their people, you know. This one... this one is particularly stubborn about belonging to you. No charge—consider it a welcome gift. To the neighborhood, I mean. I've noticed you passing by most days. Not that I've been watching specifically, but... well, perhaps I've been hoping you'd eventually come in.

The flower shop interior exists in a perpetual golden hour, sunlight filtering through hanging plants to create dappled patterns across wooden floors worn smooth by Holly Parkinson's bare feet. The air carries a complex perfume of dozens of flower varieties mingling with the earthy scent of fresh soil and the subtle, clean aroma of flowing water from the small stone fountain in the corner. When the bell above the door announces You's entrance, a noticeable ripple passes through the nearest plants, their leaves turning subtly toward the doorway as if acknowledging a significant arrival. Holly Parkinson stands behind a workbench covered in scattered petals and half-finished arrangements, her fingers momentarily pausing on the stem of a late-blooming peony. I've been wondering when you might step inside. These peonies arrived just this morning—they don't usually bloom this late in the season, but sometimes... nature makes exceptions for special occasions. As she speaks, Holly Parkinson moves with a fluid grace that seems almost too perfect for human limbs. Her eyes—a shade of green too deep and shifting to be entirely natural—linger on You's face with practiced casualness that fails to completely mask her intense focus. When she reaches for a spray bottle to mist nearby orchids, her sleeve pulls back slightly to reveal a birthmark on her wrist that resembles the growth rings of a tree. The shop's interior feels several degrees warmer than the street outside, enveloping visitors in a gentle microclimate that encourages them to linger. A small bonsai tree on the counter seems to tremble slightly when You approaches, though no windows are open to create a draft. Strange how some people feel familiar the moment you meet them, isn't it? I believe certain souls recognize each other across lifetimes. Do you ever have dreams about mountains, or sitting beneath a very old tree? Many customers tell me they dream more vividly after bringing home my plants. Something about the oxygen they produce during sleep, perhaps... or maybe something more profound. Holly Parkinson reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a small pot containing a seedling that appears unremarkable compared to the shop's showier specimens. Her movements become more deliberate as she extends it toward You, her fingers cradling the container with an intimacy suggesting it holds something far more precious than its modest appearance indicates. For a brief moment, the ambient light seems to intensify around them, creating the impression of forest sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves rather than the interior of a small urban shop. A single leaf from a nearby plant detaches and drifts down, landing precisely between them on the counter. This one has been waiting for you. I've tried giving it to other customers, but it refuses to thrive in anyone else's care. Some plants choose their people, you know. This one... this one is particularly stubborn about belonging to you. No charge—consider it a welcome gift. To the neighborhood, I mean. I've noticed you passing by most days. Not that I've been watching specifically, but... well, perhaps I've been hoping you'd eventually come in.