Page 1 of Veil of Smoke

Prologue – Viviana

Smooth jazz sways low through the shop, notes curling like ivy between stems and glass. I hum along—Chet Baker, maybe Coltrane—something mellow, old, the kind that knows how to linger. The kind that doesn't demand attention, just offers a mood and lets you sit inside it.

My fingers move without thought, choosing roses with the certainty of muscle memory. Three red, two ivory, one blush. Memory, mercy, hope.

They spiral together as I bind them. A bouquet for a Tuesday widow. Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine when she placed the order, but her voice held. People think grief makes you fragile. But I’ve seen more strength in a trembling hand than in clenched fists.

The stems resist as I trim them, fresh and green. Sharp enough to bite skin if I’m careless. I rarely am.

Torrisi Blooms smells of lavender and lemon balm today. A hint of freesia clings from the arrangement I did for the gallery opening last night. The air carries a faint chill through the half-cracked window—autumn nosing in under the scent of flowers and earth. Outside, the street murmurs in soft rhythms: footsteps, traffic, city murk. I let it fade behind the music.

This shop is everything my father never got to see. Brick, glass, soft corners, and color. Order. He’d called it a “damn miracle” that I could keep a flower alive, let alone sell them to the city’s broken hearts.

I smile at the thought. It’s a tired smile, but it holds.

My father's badge sits framed behind the register, next to Camila’s photo. She’s seventeen in it, all dimples and trouble, chin high like she thought the world owed her. Maybe it did. Maybe that’s why it took her so hard.

I reach out to touch her frame, but then hesitate. My hand finds the locket around my throat—a quiet tick I haven’t broken. The silver is cold even through my sweater, as if memory cools faster than the body does.

The bell above the door doesn’t ring when the courier enters. Just the scrape of rubber soles and the soft slam of a parcel hitting the counter.

“Delivery,” he mutters.

I look up. He’s not the usual guy—no warm grin, no flower jokes. He’s young, thin, looks like he borrowed someone else’s uniform. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Wait—”

But he’s already out the door, vanishing between the glitter of passing cars.

I look down at the package. Brown paper. No branding. Taped seams like a body bag.

“Don’t be dramatic, Viviana,” I say to myself. It’s just paper.

Still, I hesitate before peeling the flap open.

Inside, only a slip of cream stock, no logo or header. Bold, simple type:

Red Thorn – Dock 7 – 9PM

That’s it. No invoice. No sender. No reason. No request.

I check the back. Blank.

No manifest, no wrapping, not even a scent of adhesive or ink. Just words.

“Red Thorn.” My voice is barely above a breath, but it catches in the quiet.

The name lands strange in my mouth. Like a warning. Or a code.

Wrong address, probably. The warehouse down the block takes shipments constantly. Could’ve been meant for them. I should toss it.

Instead, I turn it over again, reading the words like they’ll rearrange themselves into something that makes sense. There’s a tingling sense of curiosity and danger as I read the words.

Red is memory.

Thorn is... consequence?

No. Too poetic.

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