In winter, Seabrook was hit by a rare cold rain.
The sea breeze carried biting rain that mercilessly lashed against the glass windows of Stillwind Florist.
Because of the terrible weather, there had long been no pedestrians on the street. I carried the last pot of hyacinths into the shop and was just about to pull down the rolling shutter when the wind chime above the door suddenly rang out in a hurried, chaotic series of chimes.
An extremely cold, strangely familiar, and dangerous presence swept into the flower shop with the freezing wind without warning.
My body instinctively stiffened, and my fingers tightly gripped the handle of the rolling shutter.
"Vivian."
A hoarse voice, as if it had been scraped raw by gravel, echoed through the empty flower shop.
I slowly turned my gaze.
