The Reporter from the Coast
The morning sun sliced through the blinds in thin yellow lines, each one landing on a different surface in Iris’s shop. Dust motes floated in the beams like tiny planets. She was trimming the stems of white peonies when the bell above the door chimed.
A woman stood in the doorway. She wore a trench coat despite the warmth, and her hair was pulled back so tight it stretched the skin around her eyes. A notebook dangled from one hand. A pen was tucked behind her ear.
“Iris Vane?” The woman’s voice was flat, professional.
Iris set down the shears. “Yes.”
“Margaret Cross, *Thornwood Coastal Gazette*.” She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The air in the shop shifted. Iris smelled it before she understood it—the sharp tang of ink, the sterile bite of paper fresh from a printer, and underneath, something sour and familiar. Sour milk. Mira’s scent.
“About what?” Iris asked.
Margaret pulled out a chair at the small table near the window and sat down. She crossed her legs, balanced the notebook on her knee, and clicked her pen. “I’ve received an interesting tip. Sources say you possess an unusual ability. Something to do with emotions and smell.”
Iris’s throat tightened. She kept her hands still by pressing them against her apron. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A florist who can smell how people feel.” Margaret’s eyes were pale gray, the color of winter clouds. “That’s quite a headline. ‘The Emotional Florist of Thornwood.’ Or maybe ‘The Scent of Secrets.’ Which do you prefer?”
“Neither.”
“Your customers seem to prefer you.” Margaret flipped through her notebook. “I spoke to a few. Mrs. Aldridge said you knew her husband was cheating before she did. Mr. Chen said you told him his daughter was pregnant before she announced it. Coincidence?”
Iris’s hands trembled. She pressed them harder against her apron. “People talk. They tell me things. I’m a good listener.”
“Are you?” Margaret’s pen hovered over the page. “Because the source I spoke to says you don’t need words. You just touch someone, and you know. Like a psychic, but with your nose.”
The sour milk smell grew stronger. It clung to the edges of the room, mixing with the peonies and lavender until the air felt thick and rotten. Iris wanted to open a window. She wanted to run.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Iris said.
“The truth.” Margaret smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Or a denial. Either works for a story. Denials are just as interesting as confessions. They make people wonder.”
The bell chimed again. Elias walked in.
He stopped when he saw Margaret. His eyes moved from her notebook to her pen to her tight smile. Then he looked at Iris. His face was unreadable, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Margaret Cross, *Gazette*,” Margaret said before Iris could answer. “And you are?”
“Elias Croft.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I’m a friend of Iris’s.”
“The one who bought the old house on Lavender Lane.” Margaret wrote something down. “Interesting. You’ve been spending a lot of time here.”
“I’m a customer.”
“You don’t look like a customer.” Margaret’s eyes flicked to the empty counter, the unsold bouquets. “You look like someone protecting something.”
Elias walked past her and stood next to Iris. His shoulder brushed hers. She smelled nothing from him—still blank, still empty—but his presence felt solid, like a wall against the wind.
“I think you should leave,” he said.
Margaret closed her notebook. “I’m just doing my job. The public has a right to know if there’s something strange happening in their town. Especially if it involves a business that claims to sell flowers but really sells... what? Comfort? Predictions?”
“I sell flowers,” Iris said. Her voice came out stronger than she expected. “That’s all.”
“Then you won’t mind if I write a piece about your shop. A profile. Something positive.” Margaret stood and tucked the notebook into her coat pocket. “I’ll mention the rumors, of course. Just to be thorough. But I’ll also mention your lovely arrangements. Fair and balanced.”
She walked to the door, then turned back. “The article runs Friday. I’d suggest you prepare a statement. Or a lawyer.”
The door closed behind her. The bell chimed once, then fell silent.
Iris let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her legs felt weak. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself.
“She’s going to ruin me,” she said.
Elias didn’t answer. He walked to the window and watched Margaret Cross disappear down the street. His reflection in the glass was hollow, his eyes dark.
“It was Mira,” Iris said. “I smelled her. Sour milk. She’s the one who called the paper.”
“I know.” Elias turned around. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Iris pressed her palms against her eyes. “I can’t deny it. People will believe what they want. And if I deny it, they’ll think I’m lying. If I admit it, they’ll think I’m a freak.”
“You’re not a freak.”
“Tell that to the town.” She dropped her hands. “I should leave. Pack up. Go somewhere no one knows me.”
“You can’t run.”
“Why not? You did.”
The words hung in the air between them. Elias’s jaw tightened. He looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Iris said. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” His voice was quiet. “And you’re right. I ran. I came to Thornwood to disappear. To stop feeling. To stop remembering.” He paused. “But you made that impossible.”
Iris’s heart beat faster. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet.” He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. “But I know I don’t want you to leave. Not because of her. Not because of some article.”
“What if the whole town turns against me?”
“Then they’re fools.” He said it simply, without anger. “And fools don’t deserve you.”
Iris felt something crack inside her chest. A wall she’d built years ago, brick by brick, to keep people out. It wasn’t gone, but there was a hole in it now, and through that hole, she could feel something warm and terrifying.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“I know.” Elias reached out and took her hand. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around hers with a gentleness that made her eyes sting. “I’m scared too. But I’m still here.”
She looked down at their hands. His skin against hers. Still no scent. Still empty. But she didn’t need to smell him to know he was real. She could feel it in the weight of his grip, the steadiness of his breath.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“We fight.” He squeezed her hand. “Together.”
The word echoed in the quiet shop. Together. It sounded foreign and fragile, like something that could break if she held it too tight.
“I have an idea,” she said slowly. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”
“I’ll give her a demonstration.”
He let go of her hand. “No.”
“Elias—”
“No.” His voice was sharp. “You can’t. You don’t know what people will do. They’ll treat you like a circus act. They’ll never leave you alone.”
“They already won’t leave me alone.” Iris stepped closer. “At least this way, I control the narrative. I show them what I can do. I prove it’s real. And then I tell them it doesn’t matter. I’m still just a florist.”
“You’re not just a florist.”
“I know.” She smiled, but it was thin. “But they don’t need to know that.”
Elias ran a hand through his hair. He paced to the window, then back. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate.
“What if it backfires?” he asked.
“Then I leave.” She said it calmly, like she’d already accepted the possibility. “But at least I’ll leave on my own terms.”
He stopped pacing. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he nodded.
“Fine. But I’ll be there.”
“I was counting on it.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Iris called Margaret Cross and told her she’d give a statement. She said she’d demonstrate her ability at the farmer’s market on Saturday. Margaret agreed, her voice dripping with barely concealed excitement.
Word spread fast. By evening, Iris’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Texts from customers, from strangers, from people she hadn’t spoken to in years. Some were supportive. Most were curious. A few were hostile.
She ignored them all.
Elias stayed until closing time. He helped her clean the shop, sweeping the floor and wiping down the counter. They worked in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.
When the last bucket was emptied and the last stem was trimmed, Elias walked her to the door.
“Saturday,” he said.
“Saturday.”
He hesitated, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes.
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said.
“Okay.”
He left. The door clicked shut. Iris stood alone in the dark shop, surrounded by the faint scent of flowers and the lingering echo of his touch.
She touched her cheek where his fingers had been. Still warm.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.
A woman stood in the doorway. She wore a trench coat despite the warmth, and her hair was pulled back so tight it stretched the skin around her eyes. A notebook dangled from one hand. A pen was tucked behind her ear.
“Iris Vane?” The woman’s voice was flat, professional.
Iris set down the shears. “Yes.”
“Margaret Cross, *Thornwood Coastal Gazette*.” She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The air in the shop shifted. Iris smelled it before she understood it—the sharp tang of ink, the sterile bite of paper fresh from a printer, and underneath, something sour and familiar. Sour milk. Mira’s scent.
“About what?” Iris asked.
Margaret pulled out a chair at the small table near the window and sat down. She crossed her legs, balanced the notebook on her knee, and clicked her pen. “I’ve received an interesting tip. Sources say you possess an unusual ability. Something to do with emotions and smell.”
Iris’s throat tightened. She kept her hands still by pressing them against her apron. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A florist who can smell how people feel.” Margaret’s eyes were pale gray, the color of winter clouds. “That’s quite a headline. ‘The Emotional Florist of Thornwood.’ Or maybe ‘The Scent of Secrets.’ Which do you prefer?”
“Neither.”
“Your customers seem to prefer you.” Margaret flipped through her notebook. “I spoke to a few. Mrs. Aldridge said you knew her husband was cheating before she did. Mr. Chen said you told him his daughter was pregnant before she announced it. Coincidence?”
Iris’s hands trembled. She pressed them harder against her apron. “People talk. They tell me things. I’m a good listener.”
“Are you?” Margaret’s pen hovered over the page. “Because the source I spoke to says you don’t need words. You just touch someone, and you know. Like a psychic, but with your nose.”
The sour milk smell grew stronger. It clung to the edges of the room, mixing with the peonies and lavender until the air felt thick and rotten. Iris wanted to open a window. She wanted to run.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Iris said.
“The truth.” Margaret smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Or a denial. Either works for a story. Denials are just as interesting as confessions. They make people wonder.”
The bell chimed again. Elias walked in.
He stopped when he saw Margaret. His eyes moved from her notebook to her pen to her tight smile. Then he looked at Iris. His face was unreadable, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Margaret Cross, *Gazette*,” Margaret said before Iris could answer. “And you are?”
“Elias Croft.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I’m a friend of Iris’s.”
“The one who bought the old house on Lavender Lane.” Margaret wrote something down. “Interesting. You’ve been spending a lot of time here.”
“I’m a customer.”
“You don’t look like a customer.” Margaret’s eyes flicked to the empty counter, the unsold bouquets. “You look like someone protecting something.”
Elias walked past her and stood next to Iris. His shoulder brushed hers. She smelled nothing from him—still blank, still empty—but his presence felt solid, like a wall against the wind.
“I think you should leave,” he said.
Margaret closed her notebook. “I’m just doing my job. The public has a right to know if there’s something strange happening in their town. Especially if it involves a business that claims to sell flowers but really sells... what? Comfort? Predictions?”
“I sell flowers,” Iris said. Her voice came out stronger than she expected. “That’s all.”
“Then you won’t mind if I write a piece about your shop. A profile. Something positive.” Margaret stood and tucked the notebook into her coat pocket. “I’ll mention the rumors, of course. Just to be thorough. But I’ll also mention your lovely arrangements. Fair and balanced.”
She walked to the door, then turned back. “The article runs Friday. I’d suggest you prepare a statement. Or a lawyer.”
The door closed behind her. The bell chimed once, then fell silent.
Iris let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her legs felt weak. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself.
“She’s going to ruin me,” she said.
Elias didn’t answer. He walked to the window and watched Margaret Cross disappear down the street. His reflection in the glass was hollow, his eyes dark.
“It was Mira,” Iris said. “I smelled her. Sour milk. She’s the one who called the paper.”
“I know.” Elias turned around. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Iris pressed her palms against her eyes. “I can’t deny it. People will believe what they want. And if I deny it, they’ll think I’m lying. If I admit it, they’ll think I’m a freak.”
“You’re not a freak.”
“Tell that to the town.” She dropped her hands. “I should leave. Pack up. Go somewhere no one knows me.”
“You can’t run.”
“Why not? You did.”
The words hung in the air between them. Elias’s jaw tightened. He looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Iris said. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” His voice was quiet. “And you’re right. I ran. I came to Thornwood to disappear. To stop feeling. To stop remembering.” He paused. “But you made that impossible.”
Iris’s heart beat faster. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet.” He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. “But I know I don’t want you to leave. Not because of her. Not because of some article.”
“What if the whole town turns against me?”
“Then they’re fools.” He said it simply, without anger. “And fools don’t deserve you.”
Iris felt something crack inside her chest. A wall she’d built years ago, brick by brick, to keep people out. It wasn’t gone, but there was a hole in it now, and through that hole, she could feel something warm and terrifying.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“I know.” Elias reached out and took her hand. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around hers with a gentleness that made her eyes sting. “I’m scared too. But I’m still here.”
She looked down at their hands. His skin against hers. Still no scent. Still empty. But she didn’t need to smell him to know he was real. She could feel it in the weight of his grip, the steadiness of his breath.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“We fight.” He squeezed her hand. “Together.”
The word echoed in the quiet shop. Together. It sounded foreign and fragile, like something that could break if she held it too tight.
“I have an idea,” she said slowly. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”
“I’ll give her a demonstration.”
He let go of her hand. “No.”
“Elias—”
“No.” His voice was sharp. “You can’t. You don’t know what people will do. They’ll treat you like a circus act. They’ll never leave you alone.”
“They already won’t leave me alone.” Iris stepped closer. “At least this way, I control the narrative. I show them what I can do. I prove it’s real. And then I tell them it doesn’t matter. I’m still just a florist.”
“You’re not just a florist.”
“I know.” She smiled, but it was thin. “But they don’t need to know that.”
Elias ran a hand through his hair. He paced to the window, then back. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate.
“What if it backfires?” he asked.
“Then I leave.” She said it calmly, like she’d already accepted the possibility. “But at least I’ll leave on my own terms.”
He stopped pacing. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he nodded.
“Fine. But I’ll be there.”
“I was counting on it.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Iris called Margaret Cross and told her she’d give a statement. She said she’d demonstrate her ability at the farmer’s market on Saturday. Margaret agreed, her voice dripping with barely concealed excitement.
Word spread fast. By evening, Iris’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Texts from customers, from strangers, from people she hadn’t spoken to in years. Some were supportive. Most were curious. A few were hostile.
She ignored them all.
Elias stayed until closing time. He helped her clean the shop, sweeping the floor and wiping down the counter. They worked in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.
When the last bucket was emptied and the last stem was trimmed, Elias walked her to the door.
“Saturday,” he said.
“Saturday.”
He hesitated, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes.
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said.
“Okay.”
He left. The door clicked shut. Iris stood alone in the dark shop, surrounded by the faint scent of flowers and the lingering echo of his touch.
She touched her cheek where his fingers had been. Still warm.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.