When destiny planted love

The morning began softly, like a quiet breath. At the edge of a stone-paved street stood a small flower shop with its wooden shutters still closed. In one corner, tulips gently leaned forward. Baby’s breath floated like mist above blushing pink peonies. The whole place looked like a poem hiding inside a flower shop. And in the center of it all… was him. He stood with his back to the window, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, hands moving gently and quietly. Eshan — the man who brought life to flowers and peace to silence. The kind of person whose presence made everything around him feel calm. He didn’t hum while working, didn’t speak more than needed. His voice was soft and steady. His eyes — dark amber — always seemed lost in thought. The town knew of him. They called him the quiet florist. The man who made the most beautiful flower arrangements — but never took any home. Not for his table. Not for someone he loved. Not even on special occasions. Some people said he was lonely. Others believed he preferred silence over people. And some thought he was grieving — though no one really knew why. But none of them were right. Eshan didn’t take flowers home — Because, deep down in a quiet part of his heart, He didn’t feel he deserved to. Until that morning. That morning, when he stepped outside his shop to sweep away the leaves blown in by the night’s wind — and stopped. Because right there, resting gently by the wooden doorway as if placed by a whisper — was a daisy. Just one. White. Shivering a little in the cool breeze, its yellow center peeking out shyly from beneath soft petals. A tiny drop of dew still clung to its edge — sparkling like a tear that hadn’t decided to fall yet. There was no wrapping. No note. No reason for it to be there. Only the daisy. And a strange, quiet ache in his chest. Eshan stared. And the world around him faded. He crouched down slowly, his fingers pausing just above the flower — like touching it too soon might break something precious. The stem was still green and soft. Still alive. It hadn’t been thrown there. He could feel that. It had been placed. With care. With meaning. He picked it up gently, holding it like a secret. The stem rested between his thumb and finger like it belonged there. And in that moment — standing under a sky that hadn’t yet found its color — he felt something. A pull. Like a memory brushing against his skin. Like a name softly spoken in a dream. He looked around, half expecting someone to be nearby. Watching. Waiting. Hiding. But the street was empty. Only the breeze stayed — curling softly around his feet, like a cat that knew him well. Still holding the daisy, he stepped back inside. And for the first time, in all the years since opening his flower shop… He placed a flower not in a bouquet, Not in the display, Not in a customer’s hands — But in a small glass jar by his bedroom window. He didn’t know why. And he didn’t try to understand. That night, as moonlight spread across the floor like silver milk, He sat on the edge of his bed, The daisy beside him, Watching it as if it might move. As if it might speak. He had never spoken to flowers before. But that night — something inside him quietly came undone. Like a string finally loosening after years of holding him together. He leaned toward the flower, his eyes soft, his voice barely above a whisper. “If only you were real…” he said, a weak, broken smile appearing on his lips. “I would’ve told you everything.” And then, without knowing why, He reached out… And touched the tip of one petal with his fingertip. A shiver passed through him. He went to sleep with the daisy glowing beside him — A quiet, pale moon of its own. But when morning came… The jar was empty. And in its place — She stood.