The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the polished wooden floor of Seren Blooms. Dust motes floated lazily in the light, dancing to an invisible rhythm. Seraphine stood behind the counter, her fingers threading through pale lilies. Around her, the air held the sweet scent of jasmine, roses, and the damp earth clinging to freshly trimmed stems.
It was a comfort she never questioned—like a lullaby from another lifetime.
Her hands moved on instinct, but her mind wandered far from bouquets and business.
The echo of last night’s dream still lingered, not quite fading with the morning. A voice had whispered her name—aching and reverent—as if it had waited centuries just to say it again. There had been a hand, too, over hers. Gentle. Worshipful. Real.
