Autumn was slipping away, bidding farewell to the city at a leisurely pace, leaving behind carpets of crimson and gold leaves, all dappled with the icy glints of sunlight. The air had turned crisp and clear, already whispering of winter. The tree branches stood bare, save for a few stubborn leaves clinging on like the last soldiers of a retreating army.
“September blooms and oak flowers are fading,” thought Emily, walking to her flower shop. “The final guardians of autumn’s beauty.”
She’d called asters “September blooms” and chrysanthemums “oak flowers” since she was a girl. Flowers were her love, her essence, her very breath. While other girls played with dolls, she arranged bouquets, scattered petals, and sketched wreaths. Her dream had come true—she’d opened her own flower shop, and now every day began with the scent of roses, the cheer of gerberas, and the cool touch of eucalyptus.
“Flowers aren’t just business. They’re life. They’re *me*,” she’d tell her friends.
Emily lived in a quiet corner of Bristol, not far from an old park. She was thirty-nine, sharing her home with her daughter, Sophie—a bright, dreamy sixth-former with her heart set on university that summer.
Her marriage had lasted just three years. He hadn’t left for another woman—he’d left for his *mother*. Just like that. Quietly, as if those three years had never happened. He couldn’t stand flowers. Called them “dust collectors,” grumbled about “all the windowsills being cluttered.” But Emily *needed* flowers. She had to see life, breathe in the scents, feel the petals beneath her fingers.
“No men until Sophie’s grown up,” she’d decided firmly. “And if anyone *does* come along, they’d better love flowers—or at least not hate them.”
Her love for blooms went back to her grandmother’s time. Summers were spent in a village near Chipping Norton, where fields stretched to the horizon and meadows bloomed like quilts stitched by the sky. Every day, she’d gather bouquets, and her grandmother would marvel:
“Emily, who taught you to arrange them so beautifully?”
“No one, Nan. I just *feel* it. When I grow up, I’ll open a shop, and you’ll visit me.”
“I believe you, love. You take after your grandad. He knew all about herbs and flowers—his old book’s still up in the attic, if you ever fancy a look.”
The book *was* there—worn, dog-eared, but magical. Emily memorised it, and by her teens, she could name every local plant. Biology was her best subject, and by graduation, she knew her life would always be entwined with flowers.
Her mother didn’t share the passion. She preferred practical things—tomatoes and cucumbers in the garden—while Emily stubbornly planted nasturtiums and petunias in every spare patch of soil.
“Stop filling the veg plot with flowers!” her mum would grumble. “There’s supposed to be carrots here!”
Her dad just laughed and winked. “Our little florist’s blooming, love.”
After school, Emily didn’t go to uni—and she didn’t care. She took floristry courses, worked in a flower stall. The years passed. A husband came—and went. Sophie grew up, and Emily finally opened her own shop. Then a proper store. Her parents helped, and on opening day, she cried with joy.
“Mum, I did it. This is *mine*.”
From then on, her life overflowed with petals, greenery, and grateful customers.
One day, an elegant woman named Victoria walked in, studied the displays, and said,
“Could you decorate my daughter’s wedding venue? I’ve been watching your work—your arrangements aren’t bouquets, they’re *stories*.”
Emily agreed. Not for the money—for the joy of it. She crafted everything with love: pastel compositions, living garlands, delicate touches. When Victoria saw the hall, she gasped.
“What a gift you have… Thank you. You’ve no idea how much this means.”
Word spread about Emily the Florist. Soon, she was decorating banquets, anniversaries, exhibitions. Her shop became the heart of the neighbourhood.
Then one day, a man walked in—mid-forties, fit, kind-eyed.
“Hello. You must be Emily? I need a bouquet. Something special. The kind that makes a woman smile before she’s even read the card.”
She studied him. Strong features, steady gaze. Something in his voice tugged at her.
“Who’s it for? A sweetheart, your mum, a daughter?”
“My mother. She’s turning seventy-five. I want it to feel like sunshine.”
Emily built a bouquet of roses, gerberas, and eucalyptus sprigs—alive, breathing.
“Thank you,” he said. “John. Pleasure to meet you. I hope I’ll see you again.”
Three days later, he returned.
“Surprised, Emily? Three reasons I’m back. One—Mum adored the flowers. Spot on. Two—I rather liked you. Three—fancy a coffee?”
She smiled. “Why not?”
They talked for three hours. John taught biology. They spoke of plants, books, films. Turns out, they had more in common than not.
Soon, they were dating. They spent New Year’s in the Lake District—he taught her to ski; she taught him tulip varieties. That summer, Sophie left for uni. And Emily and John married.
Now they worked together. He helped in the shop at peak times, unloaded boxes, charmed customers. One busy day, he overheard a scene:
A flustered young man burst in.
“Help! I messed up with my girlfriend. I need a bouquet that says *I’m an idiot, please forgive me*!”
Emily thought, then crafted a soft pink-and-cream arrangement—gypsophila, mimosa, all tender as an apology.
The lad thanked her and dashed off.
A year later, a couple with a pram stopped her in the street.
“Remember me?” the young man beamed. “That bouquet worked. And… well, *meet* the result!”
A baby snoozed in the pram.
“Oh my goodness,” Emily breathed. “I’m so happy for you.”
She floated home. John had dinner ready.
“John, you won’t *believe* my day—”
He listened, then smiled. “Because your flowers don’t just bring beauty. They bring happiness.”
Emily looked at her shop, her man, her life, and thought:
*Yes. Everything’s as it should be. Because when you love what you do—when you pour your heart into it—happiness blooms. Like the most cherished flower of all.*
