When I was twelve years old, the world had already changed in a way I did not fully understand. The year before, my mother had passed away after a sudden illness that seemed to take her from our lives far too quickly. At that age, grief did not feel like something I could talk about easily. It was more like a quiet weight that followed me everywhere—in school hallways, in the silent kitchen at night, and especially in the empty seat beside my father at the dinner table. My father tried his best, but he worked long hours to keep our small household afloat.

Most evenings he returned home tired and quiet, his face lined with the kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to carry too much alone. I didn’t blame him for not noticing how often I slipped out of the house in the afternoons. In truth, I didn’t even know how to explain what I was doing or why it felt so important. A few blocks from our house stood a small flower shop, its windows always filled with bright colors that seemed to glow even on cloudy days. I would stand outside and stare at the bouquets arranged inside: roses, lilies, daisies, and tulips.