Fifty-Two Fridays

Chapter 1: Small Bouquets

At seven in the morning, the street still belonged to delivery trucks, pigeons, and people with keys.

I arrived at my flower shop carrying a paper cup of coffee in one hand and fighting with the zipper of my coat with the other. The September air was sharp enough to make me wish I had worn gloves. Inside the front window, pale roses and yellow chrysanthemums waited in silver buckets, barely visible in the blue-gray light before sunrise.

That was when I saw the soldier.

He stood beside the door in full uniform, a canvas bag resting near his boots. He was young—perhaps late twenties—but the tired set of his shoulders made him look older. When I came closer, he straightened as though I were an officer arriving for inspection.

“Are you the florist?” he asked.

“That depends,” I said, raising my coffee. “Are you here to buy flowers or arrest me for opening five minutes late?”

For half a second, he looked startled. Then he laughed, and some of the tension left his face.

“Flowers,” he said. “Definitely flowers.”

I unlocked the door and waved him inside.

The shop always felt different before business hours. During the day, it was full of voices, ringing phones, hurried customers, and the constant snip of scissors. At dawn, it was quieter and almost secretive. The refrigerator hummed at the back. Water tapped softly from the stems in their buckets. The room smelled of damp leaves, eucalyptus, and fresh-cut roses.