I take the card, immediately noticing the difference. The stock is premium, the printing embossed with a subtle texture. The design is elegant—a simplified line drawing of wildflowers with the shop name and contact information beneath. It looksexpensive, the kind of stationery I might have aspired to but couldn't currently justify.
"I didn't order these," I say slowly. "Where did you say you found them?"
"On my desk this morning. I assumed they were a surprise for the anniversary."
An uneasy feeling creeps along my spine. "Was anything else out of place? Any sign someone had been in the shop?"
Sandra thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. "Everything seemed normal. The alarm was set when I arrived."
I turn the card over. On the back, in small, elegant type, is a message I hadn't noticed at first:
Congratulations on five years of remarkable growth.
No signature. Nothing to indicate who left them, or how they got into a locked shop.
"Maybe it was one of the delivery guys?" Sandra suggests. "Or that new cleaning service?"
"Maybe," I agree, though I don't believe it. The cleaning crew has a key, but they only come on Sundays when the shop is closed. Delivery drivers never go beyond the back workroom.
"Should I use them?" Sandra asks. "They're much nicer than our current ones."
I hesitate. I want to say no, to throw them away on principle. But they are beautiful, exactly the kind of elevated branding I've been wanting for Wildflower.
"Let's hold off for now," I decide. "I want to figure out where they came from first."
When Sandra has gone, I lock the front door and move through the shop, checking windows and reviewing the day's security footage on the small monitor behind the counter. Nothing unusual appears—just the normal rhythm of customers and deliveries.
I slip the mysterious business card into my wallet, telling myself I'll investigate tomorrow. Tonight is for celebration, not paranoia.
My apartment is ten blocks from the shop, a third-floor walk-up in a converted warehouse building. Smaller than I'd like, with temperamental plumbing and noisy neighbors, but the rent is reasonable and the location ideal. The space is entirely mine, decorated with vintage finds and plants that thrive under my care.
I shower quickly, letting hot water sluice away the day's tensions. I change into black jeans and a silky green top that brings out the emerald in my eyes, apply minimal makeup, and twist my copper hair into a messy updo that looks deliberate rather than harried.
My phone buzzes again as I'm sliding into my boots.
Poppy, please call me. It's important. - Dad
I delete it without replying. I walked away from that world, from the expectations, from the suffocating control.
The Hollow is crowded when I arrive, Friday night energy in full swing. I spot my friends at a high-top near the bar—Mia, my former roommate and now a sous chef at a restaurant downtown; Dylan, a graphic designer who created Wildflower's logo and website; and Tara, who teaches art at a local high school.
"There she is!" Mia calls out, raising a glass. "The flower queen herself!"
I grin, squeezing through the crowd to join them. A bottle of champagne waits in an ice bucket, and Dylan pours me a glass as soon as I sit down.
"To Wildflower," he proposes, lifting his glass. "Five years of making the world more beautiful, one petal at a time."
"To Poppy," Tara adds.
We clink glasses, and I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. These people—who have supported me through the lean times, who have celebrated every small victory—are my real family.
"I can't believe it's been five years," I say, taking a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose, bright and effervescent. "Sometimes it feels like I just opened yesterday, and sometimes it feels like I've been doing this my whole life."
"Remember when you were sleeping on that nasty futon in the back office?" Mia laughs. "And eating nothing but ramen and Red Bull?"
"God, yes." I grimace at the memory. "And that winter when the heat kept going out, and I had to keep the flowers alive with space heaters."
"While wearing three pairs of socks and that hideous parka," Dylan adds.
