The scent of roses always clung to Clara Hayes like an echo. Even when she left the shop for the day, it stayed on her—soft, cloying, and strangely comforting. The kind of scent that reminded you of something you couldn't quite place. Something gentle. Something lost.
It was nearly midnight when she flipped the sign on the door of Hallowed Petals, the flower shop she ran on the corner of Fifth and Lexington. Outside, the city breathed in its hushed, after-hours rhythm—cabs gliding by, the occasional drunk laughter spilling from a bar, and that low, eternal hum of neon lights against the dark.
Clara pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. Early April still hadn't decided whether to lean into spring or cling to winter, and New York was stubborn about seasons.
She took the long way home. She always did. Down Fifth Street, past the quiet bookstore with the crooked awning, past the bakery that smelled like memory and cinnamon. And then—
There he was.
Same as the last three weeks. Same time. Same bench.
The man in the charcoal coat.
He sat beneath the broken streetlight on the edge of the small park across from the closed jazz club. Always alone. Always with a sketchpad in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, like he was posing for a painting no one was ever going to finish.
Clara had never stopped to speak. But she noticed everything. How he never looked up. How he pressed his pencil to paper like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. How his shoes were scuffed, but his coat was expensive. How something about him made her want to cross the street.
Tonight, she did.
She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the music that played softly in her head when the city got quiet. Maybe it was the curve of his shoulders—like he was trying not to collapse inward. Or maybe she was just tired of wondering.
She paused in front of him.
"Do you ever sleep?" she asked, the words out before she could rehearse them.
The man looked up, startled—but not frightened. His eyes were dark, unreadable. The kind of eyes that had seen more than they'd said.
"Only when it rains," he said.
Clara blinked. "That's oddly poetic."
"I'm an architect," he replied, closing his sketchpad slowly. "It's in the job description."
She tilted her head. "I thought architects built things. Not spoke in riddles."
He smiled, the kind that barely reached his mouth but still softened his whole face. "We do both."
She sat down beside him before she could talk herself out of it. The bench was cold. The city felt different from this side of the street.
"I'm Clara," she said.
"Julian," he replied.
A pause stretched between them, not awkward, just quiet. Like both of them knew silence had a right to exist too.
He looked down at her hands. "You're a florist."
She raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away?"
"Petal in your hair. And the way you smell like forgiveness."
She laughed, surprised. "Is that an architect thing too? Smelling forgiveness?"
"No," he said softly. "Just a you thing."
And somehow, in that moment, Clara felt something shift. Like the city took a breath and held it. Like something was beginning.