Roses are red, violet are blue

Chapter 5: The Language of Flowers

The shop was quiet in the early morning, save for the soft rustle of petals as Lila arranged a bouquet on the counter. The gentle light filtering through the large front windows gave the flowers a golden glow, transforming the shop into a sanctuary. Lila always loved these moments of solitude, where she could immerse herself in the silent conversations flowers seemed to have with her. To her, each stem was a word, each petal a syllable in an unspoken language only her heart could fully understand.

But this morning, her mind felt restless. The usual comfort of her work was tinged with an ache she couldn't quite name. It wasn't just grief, though James's absence was ever-present—it was the weight of wondering whether she could still find the magic in this life she had chosen.

As she worked, the bell over the shop's door jingled softly, breaking the stillness. Lila looked up to see a young woman standing just inside the door, her hands clutching the strap of her bag. She was hesitant, her expression a mixture of longing and uncertainty.

"Good morning," Lila said, her voice gentle.

The woman nodded, stepping forward cautiously. "Hi. I wasn't sure if you were open yet."

"We are," Lila replied, offering a small smile. "How can I help you today?"

The woman hesitated, glancing around at the rows of blooms arranged in vases and displays. "I… I need some flowers," she said finally, her voice soft. "For someone important."

Lila's gaze softened. "Of course. Who are they for?"

The woman's eyes dropped to the floor. "My grandmother," she said, her voice faltering. "She passed away last month."

Lila's chest tightened. She stepped out from behind the counter, her movements deliberate and kind, as if to assure the young woman she wasn't alone in her pain.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Lila said, her voice low and steady. "Flowers can say what words sometimes can't. Let's make something that honors her."

The woman nodded, wiping at her eyes quickly. "She loved flowers. She used to grow roses in her garden. Every spring, they'd bloom, and she'd spend hours taking care of them. They were her pride and joy."

Lila's heart swelled at the memory shared. "Roses carry so much meaning," she said. "Did she have a favorite color?"

"Pink," the woman answered, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "She said they reminded her of happiness."

Lila walked toward a display of roses, their delicate petals unfurling like whispers of joy. She selected a few stems of blush-colored blooms, their fragrance light and sweet. "Pink roses symbolize admiration and gratitude," Lila explained, holding one up for the woman to see. "It's a beautiful way to honor her memory."

The woman's eyes glistened as she reached out to touch the rose. "She would have loved this," she murmured.

Lila set the roses aside and began adding other flowers to the arrangement. She chose soft white lilies, their elegance a symbol of peace and the restoration of the soul, and sprigs of lavender for grace and calm. As she worked, she spoke softly, her words as much for herself as for the woman before her.

"Flowers have a way of holding our emotions," she said. "They speak when we can't. Each one has a meaning, a message. It's like creating a story with blooms instead of words."

The woman watched her, captivated. "Do you think flowers can really help with grief?"

Lila paused, her hands steadying over a stem of lavender. "I think they can remind us that beauty still exists, even in the hardest times," she said. "They're a way to connect with the people we've lost. To remember them, and to feel close to them again, even if just for a moment."

The woman nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I've been struggling to feel close to her," she admitted. "It's like… like she's slipping further away every day."

Lila understood that feeling deeply. She thought of James, of how time seemed to stretch the space between her and the sound of his laugh, the warmth of his presence. "Grief can make it feel that way," she said softly. "But the love you have for her—it doesn't go away. It's still here, in you. And in the things she loved, like her roses."

The woman's lips trembled as she held back tears. "I just wish I could talk to her one more time."

Lila nodded, her own eyes stinging with emotion. "I think she'd hear you, even now," she said. "Sometimes, talking to the flowers helps. It sounds silly, but… they listen."

The woman smiled faintly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Maybe I'll try that," she said, her voice cracking.

Lila tied the bouquet with a soft satin ribbon, the pale pink perfectly complementing the delicate blooms. She handed it to the woman, who held it close to her chest as if it were a precious treasure.

"This is perfect," the woman whispered. "Thank you."

Lila placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "She'd be proud of you for doing this," she said. "For remembering her so beautifully."

The woman nodded, her face a mixture of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

As the woman left the shop, Lila stood by the counter, watching her go. The door chimed softly as it closed, and the silence that followed felt different—not empty, but full of meaning.

Lila turned back to the roses on her workbench, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up a single bloom. The act of helping the woman had stirred something in her, a reminder of why she had started the shop in the first place.

Flowers were more than just decorations. They were messengers, storytellers, keepers of memory and emotion. They spoke the words that hearts struggled to say.

As she inhaled the rose's fragrance, Lila felt a quiet strength bloom within her. The language of flowers was still alive, still vibrant. It had helped the young woman find a way to connect with her grandmother, and it had helped Lila feel connected to herself.

She smiled softly and began tidying the counter, readying herself for the next person who would walk through her door. Whoever they were, whatever they carried, Lila knew the flowers would help her say what needed to be said.

And in that thought, she found hope—a small but steady light in the quiet language of petals and stems.