The air was thick with the scent of roses and damp earth as the boy tugged at the strangers sleeve. “Sir, its my mums birthday today I want to buy flowers, but I havent got enough” The man bought the bouquet for him. Later, when he visited the gravesite, he saw those very flowers resting there.
Oliver had just turned four when his world shattered. His mother vanishednot in the way things get lost under the sofa, but properly gone. He stood in the corner of the parlour, bewildered. Why was the house full of strangers? Why did they speak in hushed tones, patting his head with pitying smiles? They said things like “Be brave, lad” and “Shes in a better place,” but none of it made sense. He hadnt lost her. She just wasnt here right now.
His father, usually so steady, was a ghost of himself. He sat by the window, hollow-eyed, untouched by the murmurs around him. Oliver crept toward the casket, peering in. The woman inside wore his mothers face, but it was all wrongwaxen, still, like a doll left out in the cold. He shrank back.
Life became grey. Two years later, his father remarried. Margaret was sharp-edged, her voice like a door slamming. She scolded Oliver for muddy shoes, for crumbs on the table, for simply existing. His father said nothing.
On his mothers birthday, Oliver woke with a single thought: he must see her. White liliesher favourite. They glowed in old photos, cradled in her hands like moonlight. But he had no money.
“Dad, could I have a bit of cash? Just a little”
Margaret cut in, her tone vinegar-sharp. “Money? For what? Do you think it grows on trees?”
His father glanced up from his paper. “Maggie, let him speak. What dyou need, son?”
“Flowers. For Mum. White lilies. Its her birthday today.”
Margaret scoffed. “Pick some daisies from the garden. Thatll do.”
“They dont sell those in shops,” Oliver said quietly.
His father sighed, then returned to his paper. The message was clear.
Oliver emptied his piggy bankclinking pennies and a few silver coins. Enough? He dashed to the florist, heart pounding. The lilies in the window were ethereal, glowing like stars.
The shopkeeper eyed him with suspicion. “Lost, are you? This isnt a sweet shop.”
“Pleasehow much for the lilies?”
She named a price. His coins barely covered half.
“Ill work for it! Sweep floors, wash windowsanything!”
“Get out before I call the police,” she snapped.
A man stepped in, his voice like gravel. “Whats all this shouting? Hes just a boy.”
The shopkeeper huffed. “Hes begging!”
The man crouched beside Oliver. “Whats your name, lad?”
“Oliver.”
“Why the flowers?”
Olivers voice wavered. “For my mum. Shes gone. Todays her birthday.”
The mans face softened. He bought two bouquetsone for Oliver, one for himself.
As Oliver clutched the lilies, the manJameswatched him go. Something tugged at his chest. Hed come back to this town after years away, carrying his own ghosts.
At the cemetery, James found the grave he sought. And there, atop the stone, lay fresh white lilies. His breath caught.
“Oliver,” he whispered. “My boy.”
He ran to the park, where the boy sat alone on a swing. James knelt before him. “Im your father.”
Oliver nodded, as if hed always known. “Mum talked about you.”
James held him tight, tears soaking the boys jacket. “Im sorry I took so long.”
A figure approachedMargarets husband, Thomas. He exhaled. “James. I wondered if youd ever come back.”
“Take him,” Thomas said quietly. “Hes yours.”
James lifted Oliver into his arms. “No more waiting.”
And for the first time in years, the world felt whole.
