When he walked into the hospice room, the sterile smell of antiseptic was overwhelmed by the sudden, aggressive fragrance of spring. Clara, propped up against pillows that seemed to swallow her small frame, opened her eyes.
Mara stopped trimming the eucalyptus. She looked at the shop—filled with the deep reds of autumn mums, the dried browns of decorative wheat, and the waxy greens of winter berries. Daffodils were a memory of April, a burst of reckless yellow that had no business in a world turning gray.
She looked at the massive, golden cloud in his arms. A smile, slow and genuine, spread across her face—the first one in weeks. buy daffodils out of season
"Elias," she whispered, her hand reaching out to catch a stem. "It’s too early."
"I need daffodils," Elias said. His voice was thin, like paper left in the sun. When he walked into the hospice room, the
Three hours later, Elias sat in the passenger seat of Mara’s van as they drove through the sleet. When they arrived at the hothouse, the humidity hit them like a physical weight. Inside, amidst the steam and the hum of industrial heaters, sat a single long table of yellow.
"They don't just grow on command," Mara said softly, but she wasn't dismissing him. She reached under the counter and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound ledger. "There’s a grower in a hothouse three towns over. He’s a fanatic. Keeps bulbs in a deep-freeze to trick them into thinking winter has passed, then wakes them up with artificial UV and timed misting." "Can you call him?" She looked at the shop—filled with the deep
"I can," Mara said. "But forced spring is expensive. And they won't last. They’re fragile when they’re born out of time. They’ll bloom bright for a day, maybe two, and then they’ll realize the world is cold and they’ll give up." "One day is enough," Elias replied.