Black Petals

CHAPTER 3: SIX O'CLOCK

VESPER'S POV

I burned Calder’s letter.

It was stupid. Dramatic. A waste of paper.

I did it anyway.

I took it to the back of the greenhouse, where the soil was damp and the air smelled like compost. I held it over the old metal pail I used for dead stems. I struck a match.

“Final Offer” it said.

$40,000. For the shop. For fifteen years. For Aunt Livia’s mother plant.

It wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

The paper curled. Blackened. Ash fell into the pail.

I watched it turn to nothing.

That was 3:17PM.

I had two hours and forty-three minutes until six.

I counted.

Because if I didn’t count, I would panic.

Elias Thorne was coming back.

At six.

He’d said it. He’d looked me in the eye and said it, like time was a promise he kept.

People didn’t keep promises to me.

Maren did. Aunt Livia did. That was it.

A stranger in a black coat? A man who collected things? He would forget. He would leave. They always did.

So I told myself he wouldn’t come.

Then I cleaned the greenhouse.

I swept. I wiped the counter. I threw away the dead stems I’d been meaning to throw away for a week. I made tea.

Terrible tea.

I’d never been good at it. Aunt Livia was. Hers tasted like honey and calm. Mine tasted like hot water and dirt.

I made it anyway. Two mugs. One chipped. The one she used.

At 5:40PM I changed my shirt.

Not because of him. Because I’d spilled soil on the other one.

The black one was clean. No holes. No stains. It was the nicest thing I owned.

I sat on the cot at 5:55PM.

My hands were shaking.

Not from fear. From something worse.

Hope.

Hope was dangerous. Hope made you look at the door. Hope made you listen for footsteps. Hope made you believe that maybe this time would be different.

The bell didn’t ring.

Of course it didn’t.

It was 6:01PM.

He wasn’t coming.

I exhaled. It hurt.

At 6:03PM, the door opened.

Not the front door. The greenhouse door.

He was already inside.

I hadn’t heard him.

Elias Thorne stood there, hands in his pockets. No coat. Black shirt. Wet hair. Like he’d walked in the rain instead of driving.

He was early. Or I was late. Time felt wrong.

“You came,” I said. My voice was too small.

“You said six.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I don’t lie about time.”

He said it like it was a fact. Like gravity.

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“I made tea,” I said. “It’s not good.”

“I don’t care.”

Liar, I thought. Everyone cares.

But I poured it anyway.

The steam rose between us. It smelled like ginger and soil. It smelled like me.

He took the chipped mug. He didn’t comment on it. He just drank.

His face didn’t change. He didn’t grimace. He didn’t lie and say it was good.

“It’s terrible,” I said, to fill the silence.

“It’s warm,” he said.

That was worse. Warm meant he noticed. Warm meant he was paying attention to the wrong things.

I sat on the cot. He sat on the floor.

Not across from me. Next to me.

Not touching.

Close enough that I could feel the heat from his arm.

We didn’t talk.

The rain started on the glass roof. Soft at first. Then hard.

I used to hate when people talked to fill the quiet. I hated small talk. How was your day. Nice weather.

Elias didn’t talk.

He just sat.

And the quiet didn’t feel like a weight.

It felt like a blanket.

“Calder came by again today,” I said. The words came out before I could stop them. “Left a letter. ‘Final offer’.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Burned it.”

“Good.”

One word. No lecture. No “you should’ve taken it”.

Good.

“He’ll come back with worse,” I said.

“I know.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

I turned to look at him. I needed to see his face when he lied.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

I blinked.

That wasn’t the answer I expected.

Men usually told me what they were going to do. Save me. Fix it. Buy it.

He asked me.

“You’re not supposed to do anything,” I said. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you grow black roses in a white town.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s everything.”

My chest tightened.

“I’m not a project, Elias.”

“I know.”

“I’m not something you collect and put on a shelf.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

He set his mug down. Careful. Quiet.

“I’m sitting in a greenhouse at six o’clock with a woman who told me not to bring my coat.”

It was stupid.

It was dangerous.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the last time I felt this quiet, I was twelve and my father told me art was a waste of time.”

I frowned. “What happened?”

“I kept collecting anyway.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask for pity. He just said it.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So I was quiet.

The rain got louder. It hit the glass in waves.

“I don’t trust easily,” I said.

“I don’t ask you to.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“I don’t see anything broken.”

That one broke something in me.

I looked away. At the roses. At the rain. Anywhere but him.

Because if I looked at him, I would believe him.

And believing hurt more than doubt.

We sat for an hour.

We didn’t touch. We didn’t talk about Calder. We didn’t talk about the shop.

He asked about the roses. I told him. Soil pH. Watering schedule. How black roses need more shade. How they bruise if you hold them too hard.

He listened.

Really listened.

Not like Maren, who listened and then gave advice. Not like the town, who listened and then pitied.

He listened like the roses mattered.

At 7:30PM, I stood.

“You should go.”

“I should.”

He stood too. He was tall. I’d forgotten.

He didn’t move to the door. He waited.

For me to say something. For me to tell him to stay.

I didn’t.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

The words surprised me as much as him.

He nodded once. “Six.”

He left.

The door closed.

And I was alone again.

But the quiet was different now.

It wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Maren came at 8:15PM.

“You stayed open late,” she said.

“I didn’t.”

She saw the two mugs. “He came.”

“Yes.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“Maren.”

“What? You were alone. For an hour. With a rich man. In a greenhouse. At night.”

“We drank tea.”

“Terrible tea, I’m sure.” She picked up the chipped mug. “You used Livia’s.”

“Yes.”

She stopped teasing. “Oh.”

I didn’t explain. I didn’t have to.

Maren knew. She’d been there when Aunt Livia died. She’d held my hair while I cried in the greenhouse for three days.

“He’s not staying, Maren,” I said.

“I know.”

“But he came today.”

“I know.”

“That’s enough. For now.”

She hugged me. Hard. “Okay. For now.”

That night, I didn’t sleep in the greenhouse.

I slept in the back room. In a real bed. For the first time in months.

I dreamed of rain.

I dreamed of grey eyes.

I dreamed of a man who sat on my floor and didn’t ask me to be smaller.

At 5:30AM, I was up. Watering.

The roses looked better.

Or maybe I did.

At 5:58PM, I was at the counter.

I didn’t sit. Sitting meant waiting.

The door opened at 6:00PM exactly.

Elias.

No coat. Black shirt. Same one as yesterday.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I brought something.”

He held out a small paper bag.

I didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“Not the coat.”

I took it. Inside was a book. Old. Leather. No title on the spine.

“What is it?”

“A field guide. To black roses.”

I opened it. The pages were yellow. Handwritten notes in the margins.

“Where did you get this?”

“Auction. Paris. 1972.”

I looked up. “You bought this for me?”

“I bought it because it was real,” he said. “And it belongs here.”

My hands shook.

No one had ever given me a book.

No one had ever thought I might want one.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

We went to the greenhouse.

He didn’t sit on the floor this time. He sat on the cot, next to me.

Still not touching.

We read the book together.

He read aloud. His voice was low. Steady. He didn’t rush.

“‘Black roses thrive in poor soil. They do not need rich earth. They need truth.’”

I stopped breathing.

He closed the book.

“Truth,” he said. “That’s what you have here.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would cry.

And I didn’t cry in front of people.

Not anymore.

At 7:30PM, he left again.

At 6:00PM the next day, he came back.

And the day after that.

Six o’clock.

Every day.

He didn’t bring gifts again. He brought himself.

Sometimes tea. Sometimes silence. Sometimes he helped me repot. His hands were clean, but he didn’t complain about the dirt.

On the fifth day, Calder’s men came again.

Three of them. Suits. Cameras.

They stood outside the shop. Taking pictures.

Elias was there.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood next to me.

Shoulder to shoulder.

They left.

On the seventh day, it rained harder.

We couldn’t sit in the greenhouse. The roof leaked.

So we sat in the shop.

On the floor. Behind the counter.

He told me about his father. About the gallery. About why he collected things that were about to be forgotten.

“I don’t want to forget you,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

Because I was afraid if I did, I would say it back.

On the tenth day, I made better tea.

It was still terrible.

He still drank it.

At 7:31PM, he didn’t leave.

He stayed until 8:00PM.

At 8:01PM, I said, “You should go.”

“I know.”

He went.

But he came back the next day.

At six.

Always at six.

Like a clock. Like a promise. Like rain.

On the fourteenth day, Maren cornered me.

“He’s not leaving, is he?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I looked at her. “You don’t even like him.”

“I don’t like that he can hurt you.” She softened. “But I like that you’re not counting the hours anymore.”

She was right.

I wasn’t counting.

I was waiting.

And waiting felt different than counting.

Waiting had a name.

Elias.

On the fifteenth day, at 6:00PM, he didn’t come.

6:01PM.

6:05PM.

6:10PM.

The shop was quiet.

The tea got cold.

I told myself he was late. Traffic. Rain.

At 6:30PM, I knew.

He wasn’t coming.

The quiet came back.

Heavy. Cold.

I cleaned the mugs. I put the book away. I locked the door.

I didn’t cry.

I went to the greenhouse.

I cut three stems.

One for the shop. One for Aunt Livia. One I threw away.

My hands were steady.

Because I’d been here before.

People left.

That was the rule.

At 8:00PM, the door opened.

I didn’t look up. “We’re closed.”

“I know.”

That voice.

I looked up.

Elias. Soaked. Hair dripping. Shirt clinging to him.

“You’re late,” I said. My voice shook.

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“My car broke down. Ten miles out. I walked.”

He held up his hands. They were scraped. Mud under his nails.

“I came,” he said.

I stared at him. At the rain on his face. At the truth in his eyes.

He walked ten miles in the rain.

For six o’clock.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making you wait.”

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Because for the first time in my life, someone walked through rain to keep a promise to me.

He stepped closer.

I didn’t move back.

“Vesper,” he said.

“Elias.”

He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t touch me.

He just stood there. Dripping. Real.

“I’m here,” he said.

I nodded.

And for the first time, I believed him.

*END OF CHAPTER 3*