Chapter 29 – Viviana
I turn the key in the lock, the click sharp and satisfying. Late morning sun spills through the restored windows of the storefront, warming my hands as I push the door open.
The new awning stretches above, black canvas with gold lettering that reads Ash & Bloom. No grand reopening fanfare, no ribbons or crowds—just this, breath and light and soil caked under my nails.
I flip the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN,” the wood smooth under my fingers. A playful spring breeze sweeps in, scattering petals along the sidewalk outside.
Inside, the air hums with peonies, basil, and clean wood, a scent that fills my lungs and settles me. Wind chimes tinkle faint above the door, their notes dancing on the breeze.
I step to the worktable, running my hands along its edge. This same surface once held roses I trimmed in a life that feels distant now, sharp with thorns I didn’t see.
Today, I arrange tiger lilies beside marigolds, their colors bold and unapologetic—strength tangled with grief, just like me. My fingers brush the petals, soft but firm, and I feel the difference in my bones.
The door swings open, and a local steps in, her smile sleepy but warm. “You’re open?” she asks, peering at the jars of blooms lining the reclaimed shelves.
“We are,” I say, my voice steady, meaning it deeper than she knows. Open to this, to me, to what we’ve built from ash.
She nods, drifting toward a shelf of daisies, and I watch her, the sunlight catching flecks of dust in the air. The shop feels alive, not perfect, but ours.
Dario pushes through from the back, grease streaking his shirt, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “You got five crates of ‘vintage ceramic’ on the truck,” he says, his voice rough but warm.
I lift a brow, leaning on the table. “Let me guess. Venetian. Smuggled out before someone noticed.”
“They fell off a dock,” he says, deadpan, adjusting the bag. “Right into our possession.”
I catch his eye, and we trade a look—half exasperation, half delight. Saints we’re not, but builders we’ve become, piecing this life together crate by crate.
The customer glances over, curious, and I turn back to the lilies, trimming a stem with quick, sure cuts. The shop hums around me, fresh paint gleaming on the walls, jars of color lining every shelf.
I used to think beauty was a lie, a mask over the rot. Now I see it clear, fragile but real, blooming where it shouldn’t.
The breeze kicks up outside, tugging at the awning, and I hear the chimes again, their song light against the morning. I set the shears down, wiping my hands on my jeans.
Dario drops the duffel by the counter, his boots scuffing the floor. I feel him behind me, a steady presence, and it’s enough, more than I once dared hope.
The customer picks up a jar of basil, sniffing it with a small grin. “What’s the new name mean?” she asks, turning to me, her voice bright with curiosity.
I lean on the table, feeling the wood under my palms, solid and worn. “It means we don’t hide the fire anymore,” I say, my voice clear. “We grow from it.”
She nods, like it makes sense, and I feel it too, the truth of that name, carved from what we’ve built.
Dario steps past, brushing my temple with a quick kiss, his lips warm against my skin. “And we make rent doing it,” he says, hefting a crate from the back, his grin sly.
I smirk, watching him move, the grease on his shirt catching the light. The customer laughs soft, turning back to the basil, and I feel the shop settle, a rhythm we’ve found.
The tiger lilies stand tall in their vase, orange petals curling bold, and I trace one, feeling its texture, its quiet defiance. This is mine, ours, a bloom I didn’t expect.
I step to the counter, pulling a ledger—not Caldera’s, but ours—from under it. Ink marks orders, deliveries, small steps forward, and I smile, faint but real.
Dario grunts as he sets the crate down, ceramic clinking inside. “Heavy bastards,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans, and I catch the glint in his eye.
“Worth it,” I say, leaning on the counter, my voice light. “If they’re real.”
“They’re real enough,” he says, smirking, and I feel the ease between us, sharp and warm, a thread we’ve woven tight.
The customer drifts to the marigolds, her fingers brushing their golden heads, and I watch her, the shop framing her like a picture I’ve painted from scratch.
I used to think stability was a trap, a cage dressed up pretty. Now it’s this, a storefront with my name on it, a life I’ve chosen, not one I’ve run from.
The chimes ring again, soft and clear, and I feel the breeze slip through the open door, carrying the scent of spring, clean and green.
Dario steps closer, peering into the crate, and I see the grease smudge on his cheek, the way his hands move, sure and steady. He’s here, with me, and it fits.
I trim another stem, the snip crisp in the quiet, and set it beside the lilies, a marigold bright against the orange. They clash, but they work, like us.
The customer turns, holding the basil jar. “I’ll take this,” she says, her smile waking up, and I nod, ringing it up on the old register.
“First sale,” I say, handing her the jar, my voice steady, a small triumph humming through me.
She grins, heading out, and the door swings shut behind her, the chimes tinkling soft. I lean back, feeling the counter under my elbows, solid and real.
Dario unpacks the crate, pulling out a chipped vase, its glaze cracked but gleaming. “Not bad,” he says, holding it up, catching the light.
“Not bad at all,” I say, stepping beside him, my shoulder brushing his.
Dario sets the vase down, his hand brushing mine, and I feel it, the quiet power of this, us, standing where we’ve planted ourselves.
The lilies nod in their vase, bold and bright, and I trim one more, setting it beside the marigolds, a balance I’ve learned to trust.
The light dims just enough to paint gold across the pavement. Most of the day’s bouquets are gone, their cellophane wrappers rustling as customers tucked them into bike baskets or walked them home like promises. The street has quieted into a kind of easy hush—cars drifting slow, kids trailing their parents with bubblegum stuck to their sneakers, music playing low from an apartment above the corner laundromat.
I sit on a crate outside the shop, legs stretched, coffee cradled between both palms. The door behind me clicks shut as Dario settles beside me with a groan and a second cup. His jeans are streaked with soil. He’s tracking dirt everywhere, but I don’t care. I like the mess we make. It’s ours.
A kid on a rusted BMX rides past, a bouquet poking from their backpack. Tiger lilies, wrapped haphazardly. They’re probably for a teacher. Or a girl. Or a grave. I don’t need to know which. The fact that they’re leaving the shop at all—that’s enough.
Dario nudges me with his elbow, and I lean in, resting my head on his shoulder. He’s warm, steady. Still smells like rosemary and sweat.
“I used to think this place was my prison,” I say, voice low. “The windows. The routine. Even the damn peonies. I thought I was trapped.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just sips his coffee, then glances down at my hands—still a little raw, calloused in all the right places. “Now?”
“Now it feels like armor.”
He hums. A sound like agreement.
“You built this out of the ashes,” he says.
I tilt my head, looking up at him through lashes still dusty from the day. “We did.”
He smiles at that. The real kind. Not the quick quirk he throws when he’s deflecting. This one stays. Lingers like summer heat.
Down the street, a sharp honk slices through the quiet. A cherry-red convertible speeds by—Rita behind the wheel, her sunglasses crooked, a croissant held triumphantly out the window like a trophy. She doesn’t stop. Just shouts, “You owe me wine!” before vanishing around the corner in a screech of music and tire smoke.
My phone buzzes a second later.
T-Bone: Jazz van’s got a liquor license. First shipment coming. Hope you stocked mixers, boss.
I hand the phone to Dario. He reads it, chuckles.
“We’re legitimate now,” he says. “Mostly.”
I bump his knee with mine. “Speak for yourself.”
The coffee’s almost gone, but neither of us moves. The wind picks up, soft but sure. Petals swirl down the sidewalk, catching on the curb like they’re choosing where to fall. I watch them with a strange kind of affection—like they’re part of me.
The shop lights hum behind us. The new sign above the door sways a little in the breeze. Ash & Bloom. It fits. Not because it’s clever or pretty. Because it’s true.
I feel planted.
Not trapped. Not chained.
Chosen.
We sit there until the stars start showing. Until the scent of jasmine and truck oil and faint sugar from next door blends into something that smells like home.
I don’t need a perfect ending.
I don’t even need a happy one.
Just this.