The Witching Hour

      By the time two weeks had passed, Petunia had all but convinced herself it hadn't meant anything. People came into the flower shop every day. Some were kind. Some remembered her name. Some asked for help choosing flowers and thanked her sincerely. Shawn had been no different. Just another fleeting customer who, for some reason, had asked about her reading preferences and told her she didn't seem like someone who wilts.       And maybe she had dreamed up that part.       She'd tried not to replay the conversation in her head, but sometimes, while tying a ribbon or stacking vases or walking home past the rows of terraced houses, his voice crept back in. Quiet. Measured. A little uncertain, but never uninterested.       But she hadn't seen him since. No second visit.       So, like with so many things, Petunia filed it away in that dusty part of her mind labeled "Things-Not-Meant-For-Me", and focused on her books, her exams, and on not thinking about Lily's latest letter, which had included a dancing photograph of her and some boy at a Halloween feast.       It was late on a Wednesday when it happened again.       The sky outside was pewter gray, hanging low like a lid over the rooftops, and rain tapped steadily at the windowpanes. Mrs Hughes had gone home early with a sore ankle, and Petunia was sweeping leaves from the doormat when she heard the bell chime again.       She didn’t look up at first.       "Sorry," she said, in the automatic tone she used with delivery drivers. "We're closing in ten minutes."       "I'll be quick."       The broom stopped mid-sweep.       That voice. Low and careful, like it was folded in layers.       Petunia slowly raised her eyes, and there he was. Standing in the exact same spot as last time. Slightly damp again, though the rain hadn't come down hard. His scarf this time was navy, and his coat looked like it had seen years of wind and wear. And his eyes — those serious, dark eyes — were locked on hers, just the same.       "You came back," she said, before she could stop herself.       A pause. He glanced at the floor. "Told you I might."       She felt a hundred questions bloom in her throat, but none of them made it out. He looked tired, but not in the way that meant sleep-deprived. It was more like the tiredness of someone who carried too many unspoken things.       "I don't need flowers this time," he said.       "Alright," she said lightly, trying not to show how fast her heart was fluttering. "Well, that narrows down my sales pitch."       He smirked. Barely. Just a flicker. Then he cleared his throat and looked down at the counter, like the grain of the wood was suddenly fascinating. "I've been... trying to decide if I should come back. Or if it was stupid to even think about it."       Petunia blinked. "Why would it be stupid?"       "Because," he said slowly. "I'm not very good at... this. Talking. Explaining things. Sounding... normal."       There was a weight to the last word. Not sad. But cautious. Measured. Then he suddenly looked up.       "Do you want to go out with me?'       Petunia's breath hitched. She hadn't imagined it.       "I... what?"       He inhaled. "For a walk. Or coffee. Or... honestly, whatever it is people do. I'm terrible at this. But I thought about it. A lot. And I'd like to see you again. If you want, of course."       It wasn't suave. Or confident. Not even practiced, or sweetly rehearsed like something from a teen romance. But it was real. And for a long moment, Petunia said nothing. Then, slowly, she nodded.       "I'd like that."       He nodded too, like that small exchange had used up all his nerve. "Tomorrow?"       She smiled, tentative but real. "Tomorrow's fine. After five. I close up then."       "I'll be here."       He turned to go, then paused at the door again, just like last time.       And then, over his shoulder. "You still reading Brontë?"       Petunia laughed. "Moved on to Austen."       He nodded once. "Let me know if she wilts."       And then he was gone again, disappearing into the soft evening rain, quiet as ever. But this time, Petunia didn't wonder if she'd imagined it. This time, she was certain something had begun.

***

      The next morning, Petunia Evans woke up before her alarm.       The sky outside her bedroom window was pale and cloudless, the first clear day in nearly a week. Sunlight slid through the curtains in narrow golden stripes, brushing the edges of her desk, her bookshelf, the framed certificate of academic excellence she'd earned last spring.       She lay still for a moment, one hand on her chest, feeling her heart tick like a quiet clock.       It wasn't a date. Not really. He hadn't called it that. He hadn't promised anything. And yet she found herself planning her day around it the way one might plan around a rare eclipse. Delicate, fleeting, something you weren't entirely sure you'd really get to see.       Petunia dressed more carefully than usual. Not overly done (no lipstick or perfume), but she paid attention. A soft wool skirt in a muted forest green, a fitted gray cardigan with a delicate pattern near the collar. Subtle. Smart. Like her. She left her hair down, brushing it out until it lay smooth and dark against her shoulders, no longer a hint of the natural blonde beneath.       She told herself it wasn't about him. It was about looking... composed. Thoughtful. Like someone worth noticing.       Downstairs, the kettle was whistling, and her mother's voice drifted in from the kitchen.       "Tuni, darling? Toast or porridge?"       "Toast, please."       Heather Evans stood at the stove in her robe, her auburn hair caught up in a clip. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and burnt toast crumbs. The radio murmured gently in the background with some gardening programme. Petunia took her seat at the table without a word.       Her mother turned to glance at her, butter knife in hand. "You're up early."       "I've got the morning shift," Petunia replied, buttering her toast with quiet precision.       "Mmm..." Heather set down a mug of tea. "You're wearing the cardigan from Christmas."       Petunia looked up, just briefly. "It's clean."       "It's lovely," her mother said, too casually. Then, after a pause. "You don't usually bother much with clothes before work."       The girl sipped her tea. "Well. It's chilly."       Heather sat down across from her, folding her hands. "You seem... chipper."       "Is that a crime?"       "Not at all." The woman smiled, but there was something searching in her eyes now. Not suspicion exactly, just that gentle, unsettling mother-knows-something kind of curiosity. "You've been quiet lately. Not unhappy. Just... somewhere else."       Petunia looked down at her plate. "I've just been busy."       Heather nodded, not pressing. But after a long moment, she said. "Is it someone from school?"       "No."       "From the shop?"       Petunia hesitated a fraction too long. "No."       Her mother smiled knowingly, a tiny crease forming at the corner of her mouth. "Alright then. If you say so."       They finished the meal in a companionable hush, and when Petunia rose to leave, Mrs Evans only added. "Be safe. And wear your coat, the sun's a lie today."       Petunia gave a nod, lingering just a moment longer at the door, then stepped out into the chill of the late morning, coat over one arm, heart thudding louder than it had any right to.       She didn't know what to expect. But for once, she was walking toward something — something that had nothing to do with Lily, or magic, or being left behind.       And that, in itself, was a kind of quiet magic she had never believed she'd feel.

***

      By the time Petunia reached the shop, the sky had turned a softer shade of pewter, and the breeze had picked up, pulling at the ends of her coat as she unlocked the door and flicked on the lights.       The flower shop always smelled faintly of damp earth and lavender water, but this morning the scent felt sharper, cleaner, like the flowers had somehow picked up on her nerves. She hung her coat on the peg behind the counter, adjusted the display of white lilies by the window (too dramatic, she decided), and tucked her book underneath the till where it wouldn't be seen.       All day, customers drifted in and out. Mrs Jones needing fresh blooms for her mother's grave, a schoolboy clutching a handful of pocket coins and asking for "anything that smells expensive", a pair of girls in uniform pretending to shop while laughing into their sleeves. Petunia helped each of them politely, with the calm, composed efficiency she'd perfected over months behind the counter.       But beneath her practiced manner, time trickled like honey. Every glance at the clock ticked her pulse higher.       It wasn't that she expected anything extravagant. She'd told herself that a dozen times. It was probably just a walk. Fifteen minutes, perhaps. He might not say much. He might be late. He might not show up at all.       And yet, she found herself checking her reflection in the cooler glass between customers, smoothing her hair when no one was looking, catching herself smiling at nothing.       At 4:30, she trimmed the stems on a bouquet of peonies and told herself sternly that she didn't care.       At 4:45, she tidied the ribbon drawer. Twice.       At 4:59, she had all but convinced herself she'd been mistaken, that he had changed his mind, or had never truly meant it in the first place.       And then the bell above the door jingled. Petunia looked up sharply. And there he was.       Shawn stood just inside the doorway, his dark coat buttoned to the collar, his hair damp from the lingering mist outside. He looked exactly the same, perhaps a little more tired, a little more windblown, but his gaze settled on her like it always had: quiet, serious, unwavering.       "I'm not late, am I?" he asked almost cautiously.       Petunia blinked, heart stuttering. "No. Right on time."       He looked around the shop, at the flowers still glowing under the warm yellow lights. "You're always surrounded by life in here," he said, almost as if to himself. "Strange, that it feels so still."       "Still?"       "In a good way," he added quickly. "Like a place that doesn't move unless it wants to."       She wasn't entirely sure what he meant. But somehow, it didn't feel wrong.       "I'll just grab my coat," she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt. As she tugged it off the hook, she caught his eye again. And again, that small flicker of something passed between them. Interest, perhaps. Recognition. Or something else entirely.       They stepped out together into the dusk. The air was crisp and clean, and the light had begun to fade into that peculiar shade between blue and gray, the kind that makes even familiar streets look touched by something unspoken.       For a while, they walked without talking. The town was quiet, save for the occasional bark of a dog or the distant hum of a car. Their shoes tapped in quiet rhythm along the pavement.       Petunia glanced at him. 'So... where are we walking to?"       He shrugged. "Nowhere in particular. Thought you might pick."       She smiled slightly. "I don't go anywhere interesting."       "Still worth walking with," he replied.       She glanced at him sharply, surprised. He hadn't even looked at her when he said it.       They passed the park where she used to take Lily when they were small, the swings creaking gently in the wind. The hedges were wild this time of year, copper leaves piling in the corners like forgotten thoughts.       Shawn broke the silence. "You didn't ask what I do."       "I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to."       He looked at her then, a bit startled, then nodded. "Most people ask. They're... curious."       "I think you're the sort who prefers not to explain things until he's sure."       His lips curved into something almost like a smile. "You're not wrong at all."       They crossed the street near the old chapel, and for a moment, Petunia caught a strange flicker in the edge of her vision. Like a shimmer in the air, a pulse. But when she turned her head, nothing was there.       She blinked.       "Are you alright?" he asked, noticing her pause.       "Yeah," she said slowly. "I just thought I saw... nevermind."       They walked in silence a while longer. Then, softly, as they turned the corner past the bookshop, Shawn said. "You don't like magic, do you?"       Petunia stopped walking.       Her breath caught in her throat, and the sounds of the street — the wind, the birds, the rustle of a paper bag rolling along the pavement — felt suddenly too loud.       "I never said anything about..."       "You didn't have to." He looked at her now, not accusingly, not cruelly, but with a kind of gravity that made the world seem thinner between them. "I just... noticed."       Petunia swallowed. "Are you..."       "I'm not," he said quickly. "Not exactly. And I won't bring you into anything you don't want. Trust me."