Ten years passed. I left town, went to college, built a life. But I never forgot her.
When I returned, it was for a happier reason—my wedding. I walked back into that same shop, now slightly smaller and older-looking, the paint fading on the sign but the scent still the same.
The owner stood behind the counter, her hair more silver than brown. She didn’t recognize me at first.
“I’d like a bouquet,” I said. “For my wedding.”
Her smile brightened. “Congratulations, dear. What kind?”
“Daisies,” I said without hesitation.
As she wrapped them, I took a deep breath. “You once let a little girl take flowers without paying,” I said softly. “They were for her mother’s grave.”
Her hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, she looked up at me. “That was you?”
I nodded.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I knew your mother,” she whispered. “And your grandmother. They were both kind to me when I first opened this shop. Your mother used to come in every Sunday for daisies—said they reminded her of home.”
