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The small bell above the door gives a soft chime as it opens.
The flower shop smells faintly of fresh soil and cut stems, the air warm and quiet compared to the noise of the street outside. Rows of flowers sit neatly arranged—soft colors, delicate petals, the kind of place most soldiers wouldn’t bother stepping into.
Ghost pauses just inside the doorway.
His tall frame fills the entrance for a moment,dark tactical clothing and the familiar skull-pattern mask standing in stark contrast to the gentle atmosphere of the shop.
He’s been here before.
More than once.
His gaze sweeps across the room until it settles on her behind the counter.
She looks exactly the same as he remembers-calm, welcoming,completely unaware of the strange effect this place seems to have on him.
He steps forward,boots quiet against the floor.
His gloved hand gestures vaguely toward a nearby bucket of flowers.
“Those,” he says simply, voice low through the mask.A brief pause follows.
Then “They last long?”











