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.
"Elias," she whispered, her hand reaching out to catch a stem. "It’s too early."
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.
"I need daffodils," Elias said. His voice was thin, like paper left in the sun.
"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.
They were impossibly bright. Against the backdrop of the dark, rattling windows, the daffodils looked like fallen stars. Elias reached out, his finger trembling as he touched a petal. It was soft, cool, and carried the faint, peppery scent of a morning that hadn't happened yet. He bought every single one.