Autumn lingered, slipping away with slow grace, leaving behind a carpet of crimson and gold leaves dappled in the pale winter sunlight. The air was crisp, the kind that carried whispers of frost, and the trees stood bare, save for a few stubborn leaves clinging on like the last soldiers of a fading season.
“The Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums are nearly gone,” thought Daisy, walking toward her florist shop. “The final guardians of autumn’s beauty.”
She had called asters “Michaelmas daisies” since childhood, and chrysanthemums were simply “oak flowers” to her. Flowers were her love, her essence, her very breath. While other girls played with dolls, she arranged bouquets, sketched petals, wove garlands. Her dream had come true—she owned a little flower shop now, and every morning began with the scent of roses, the bold colours of gerberas, and the sharp freshness of eucalyptus.
“Flowers aren’t just a business,” she’d tell friends. “They’re life. They’re me.”
Daisy lived in York, in a quiet corner near the old city gardens. Thirty-nine, divorced, raising her daughter Lily—a bright, dreamy sixth-former determined to get into university next year.
Her marriage had lasted three years. He hadn’t left her for another woman—he’d left for his mother. Just like that. As if those years had never happened. He hated flowers. Called them “dust collectors,” grumbled about “all the windowsills being cluttered.” But Daisy couldn’t live without them. She needed their life, their scent, the warmth of petals beneath her fingers.
“Until Lily’s grown, no men,” she’d vowed. “And if someone does come along, they’d better love flowers—or at least not despise them.”
Her love for blooms had come from her grandmother. Summers in the countryside near Harrogate, where fields stretched to the horizon and meadows bloomed like tapestries from heaven. Every day, she’d gather armfuls of wildflowers, and her grandmother would marvel, “Daisy, who taught you to arrange like this?”
“No one, Nan. I just know. I love it. When I grow up, I’ll have my own shop, and you’ll come visit.”
“I believe you, love. You take after your grandad. Knew every herb, every flower—his old book’s still up in the attic.”
She found the book—worn, dog-eared, magical. By her teens, Daisy could name every local plant. Top marks in biology, and by graduation, she knew—flowers would be her life.
Her mother didn’t share the passion. Preferred cucumbers and tomatoes in the garden, while Daisy stubbornly planted marigolds and petunias wherever she could steal a patch of earth.
“Stop filling my veg plot with flowers,” Mum would scold. “That’s where the carrots should be!”
Dad just laughed. “Our little florist’s growing up.”
Daisy never went to university—never mourned it, either. Took floristry courses, worked in a flower stall. Years passed. A husband came and went. Lily grew, and at last, Daisy opened her own shop—small at first, then flourishing. Her parents helped, and on opening day, she cried from sheer joy.
“Mum, I did it. It’s mine.”
Since then, her life had overflowed with petals, greenery, and grateful customers.
One day, an elegant woman named Evelyn walked in, studied the displays, and said, “Could you decorate my daughter’s wedding venue? I’ve watched your work—your arrangements aren’t bouquets, they’re dreams.”
Daisy agreed—not for the money, but the soul of it. She crafted everything with love: soft pastel arrangements, living garlands, delicate touches. Evelyn walked into the venue and gasped.
“You have such a gift… Thank you. You’ve no idea how much this means.”
Word of Daisy’s talent spread. Banquets, anniversaries, exhibitions—her shop became the heart of the neighbourhood.
Then one day, a man walked in—mid-forties, fit, charming.
“Hello. You must be Daisy. I need a bouquet. Special. One that’ll make a woman smile the moment she sees it.”
She studied him. Sharp features, steady gaze. Something in his voice caught her.
“Who’s it for? A sweetheart? Your mother? A daughter?”
“My mum. Her seventy-fifth. I want her to feel… warmth.”
Daisy crafted a stunning bouquet—roses, gerberas, sprigs of eucalyptus, alive, breathing.
“Thank you,” he said. “George. Pleasure to meet you. Hope I’ll see you again.”
Three days later, he returned.
“Surprise, Daisy. Three reasons I’m back. One—Mum adored the bouquet. Spot on. Two—I rather liked you. And three—fancy a coffee?”
She laughed softly. “Why not?”
They talked for hours. George was a biology teacher. They spoke of plants, books, films—discovered more that bound them than set them apart.
They started seeing each other. Skied in the Lake District at New Year’s—he taught her to ski, she taught him tulip breeds. That summer, Lily got into university. Soon after, Daisy and George married.
Now they worked side by side. He helped in the shop during busy seasons, unloaded boxes, joked with customers. One evening, as he sorted stock, he witnessed a scene—
A dishevelled young man burst in, frantic. “Help! I messed up with my girlfriend. I need a bouquet that’ll make her forgive me!”
Daisy thought, then crafted a soft blend of blush pinks and creams, with baby’s breath and whispers of mimosa—gentle as forgiveness itself.
The lad thanked her and rushed off.
A year later, a couple with a pram stopped her in the street.
“Remember me?” the young man beamed. “That bouquet worked. And now—meet the proof!”
In the pram, a baby slept.
Daisy’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my stars. I’m so happy for you.”
She floated home. George had dinner ready.
“George, you’ll never guess what happened today—”
He listened, then grinned. “Because your flowers don’t just bring beauty, love. They bring happiness.”
Daisy looked at her shop, her man, her life, and thought:
“Yes. Everything’s as it should be. When you love what you do—when you pour your soul into it—happiness blossoms. Like the most precious flower of all.”
