The city felt colder than Adrian remembered.

  Steel skies hung low over the rooftops, and the air carried that faint edge of coming rain—the kind that left your coat damp and your thoughts heavier. He tightened his scarf as he crossed the street, weaving through clusters of people bundled in winter layers and lost in their own lives.

  But he wasn’t here for the city.

  He was here for her.

  Sarah Wellington.

  His fiancée.

  The girl who once braided daisy chains into his hair in college, who laughed like wind chimes and cried at old films. The girl who moved away two years ago for her career, promising they’d make it work.

  They had. Mostly.

  There were late-night calls, countdowns to visits, and handwritten letters tucked between care packages. Their love had stretched, thinned, but never snapped. At least, that’s what Adrian told himself when the distance got loud.

  They were getting married at the end of the year, at her family’s countryside estate, beneath a sky full of stars and fairy lights. He’d seen it all—planned it, dreamed it. This visit was supposed to be a surprise, a weekend stolen from routine, a reminder that love still pulsed strong between them.

  And nothing said I missed you like her favorite lilies.

  He stepped into the small flower shop tucked between a bakery and a bookstore, greeted by warmth and the heady scent of fresh blooms. The florist, a woman with silver-rimmed glasses, smiled knowingly as he pointed to a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in pale blue paper.

  “Anniversary?” she asked.

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  “Something like that,” Adrian replied with a small grin, handing over cash.

  As he stepped outside, bouquet in hand, something else caught his eye.

  A small stand just beside the shop—one he swore hadn’t been there a minute ago.

  It was barely more than a table covered in dark velvet, but it was cluttered with curious things: ornate brooches, lace gloves, hair combs carved with roses, and glinting silver mirrors dulled by time. Standing behind it was an old woman draped in layers of mismatched fabric, her face half-shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat.

  Adrian hesitated, then approached.

  Sarah loved vintage accessories. She said they had stories inside them. He picked up a delicate hairpin shaped like a lily—ivory enamel tipped with a single pearl—and a small, round hand mirror with vines etched into its handle.

  “Beautiful pieces,” he murmured, holding them out. “I’ll take both.”

  The old woman didn’t reach for them.

  Instead, she placed a hand over his—thin, papery skin over callused fingers—and looked up at him with eyes far too sharp for someone her age.

  “Be careful,” she said, voice low and rough like wind through dead leaves. “Don’t go seeking the answers you don’t want to know.”

  Adrian blinked. “I—sorry?”

  She didn’t answer. She reached beneath the table and pulled out something wrapped in black silk. Unfolding it, she revealed a golden pocket watch—its surface scratched and aged, but still gleaming under the city light.

  “I don’t need that,” Adrian said gently. “Really. I’ve already got—”

  “You never know,” she interrupted, pressing it into his hand, “when you might need more time.”

  He stood there, unsure, his fingers curling instinctively around the cold metal. Something about her tone made refusal feel… unwise.

  “…Thank you,” he said finally, slipping it into his coat pocket with a polite nod.

  He turned to leave.

  But as he stepped back onto the sidewalk, something made him glance over his shoulder.

  The table was still there.

  The velvet. The trinkets.

  But the old woman was gone.

  In her place stood a young girl—no older than twenty—smiling softly, brushing dust from the edge of the mirror he’d just purchased.

  Adrian stared.

  The girl looked up, caught his gaze—and winked.

  He turned back toward the street, the lilies suddenly heavier in his hand. Somewhere in his coat, the pocket watch ticked softly, the sound swallowed by the rhythm of the city.