"I need daffodils," Elias said. His voice was thin, like paper left in the sun.
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. buy daffodils out of season
The florist, a woman named Mara whose hands were permanently stained the color of crushed stems, finally looked up. "It’s nearly winter, sweetheart. You’re six months late or four months early, depending on how you look at it." "I need daffodils," Elias said
"No," he said, tucking a bright yellow bloom behind her ear. "The world was just running a bit late. I went ahead and started without it." She looked at the shop—filled with the deep