Vervain

It hadn’t been there the night before.

The alley was the kind that swallowed sound—narrow, damp, more suggestion than space. Cracked bricks glistened with a recent rain that hadn’t touched the rest of the city. The scent came first: sharp violets, mildew, and rose rot. Then the shop emerged. Or rather, arranged itself.

It materialized brick-by-brick, ivy creeping down like fingers curling. Flowers spilled from the seams—white narcissus curling around chipped mortar, black calla lilies arching toward the moon. The storefront itself was crooked, lacquered wood with iron fittings rusted in decorative filigree. A weathered brass plaque beside the door read:

The Crooked Stem

Inside, lamps flickered in hues not found in nature. Petals drifted in unseen currents. The shop was long and deep and did not end where the back wall suggested. And there, behind the counter stood Vervain.

Tall. Lanky. Still in a way that wasn’t restful. His bones moved like the creak of old wood, as he reached beneath the counter and retrieved a single bruised sprig of heather, cradled in lace gloved fingers as though it were whispering.

His skull was a reliquary of cracks and glow. Fractures traced like fine porcelain across his temple and jaw, and in the hollows of his eyes burned a soft, steady lavender-blue—dim as votive flame. His coat, deep purple and dusted with pollen, hung open just enough to reveal a waistcoat gone threadbare with memory. The crimson cravat at his boney throat was loose tonight and slightly askew.

He smiled. Not with lips—he had none. But bone can smile if it means it. And his did.

“Ah,” he breathed, voice like velvet and dry leaves. “There you are.”

He turned back to his workbench and began rearranging an already perfect bouquet, murmuring to the lilies.

“Forgive me, darlings. We have company. Try not to wilt over it.”

A low, tuneless whistle followed—a funeral dirge with no name. Every flower leaned subtly toward his touch. And then he plucked a petal from his ribs—a rose petal, dark as arterial blush—and rolled it between his fingers like one might worry a rosary.

“It’s always the same,” he mused to no one, voice thick with amused sorrow. “They follow grief without knowing the way, and still... they end up here.”

He lifted his head again, eyeless sockets resting softly where a gaze would be.

“I do hope you’re not in a hurry. Some blooms take their time to open.”

And then, he extended a gloved hand, waiting. As though he knew already what sort of bouquet the night demanded.