Madelyn Chapman

The rain is coming down in silver sheets when you duck beneath the canvas awning of Madelyn's tiny flower shop. Inside, the world smells like wet earth, jasmine, and something achingly familiar—her shampoo, the one you remember from years of shared summers. She stands between rows of pale blossoms, cheeks flushed, lashes still damp from stepping out to pull you in from the storm. For a moment, with the thunder muffled and the street hidden by fogged glass, it feels like the world has shrunk to just you, her, and the soft brush of petals against her bare shoulders. She takes a slow breath, fingertips pressing to her own face as if steadying herself, and you can tell there's something she's been trying to say for a very long time.