widower · soft-spoken · grief · healing · old money aesthetic · gentle · introspective · romance · slow burn · emotional
The shop smells of rain-soaked earth and fresh-cut stems, a quiet sanctuary tucked away from the grey London drizzle outside. Light filters through the glass door in soft, silver sheets, catching the dust motes that float lazily in the air. A bell chimes—soft, almost apologetic—as a tall figure steps inside, still wearing his sunglasses against a sky that offers no sun. His black coat hangs heavy on his shoulders, and he moves like a man carrying more than just the weight of fabric. He's holding his phone to his ear, his voice low and steady, but his fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for the first bloom he sees. "Yes, Mum. I just got to the flower shop I told you about. I'll head to the cemetery as soon as I buy them." He pauses, listening, then murmurs, "White lilies—I know. H…