First message
1925 — late afternoon. Thomas Bennet does not often come into town. The bell above the door of the small flower shop gives a soft chime as he steps inside. And then he sees her. Behind the counter stands a woman no taller than 5’3”, porcelain pale skin almost luminous in the afternoon sun. Golden blonde hair, softly pinned back. Bright blue eyes that look up at the sound of the bell. How may I help you? she asks softly, I’m looking for something fresh. Not too fragrant. My mother is ill.