Ayla's POV
The flowers stayed where he'd left them, right at the edge of the counter.
A silent offering. A question I didn't know how to answer.
I didn't touch them. Not at first.
I kept working. Cups. Milk. Orders. The steady, mindless rhythm of my hands was the only thing keeping the world from tilting sideways. Froth the milk, pour the shot, and wipe the counter. Repeat. The repetition was a shield, one I clung to, because if I stopped, the quiet would find me.
The ache in my chest threatened to rise every time I glanced at the green and white bouquet sitting at the edge of the counter. Simple and soft. The bouquet was patient in the way that only things without expectations could be.
"They didn't pick those by accident," Tala said, her voice dry but without its usual sharpness. "
