Working in a flower shop doesn't exhaust me, it actually provides me with a morning exercise routine. Every day, I make sure to walk a thousand steps, starting in the morning. Whether it's a sunny day or freezing cold, I deliver flowers to every house in my area. The people here are incredibly lovely. They buy flowers every morning because they go to church to pray. If they meet someone along the way, they greet each other by exchanging a flower from their bouquets.

I live in a hilly area. As I deliver flowers, I jump down each step after giving a bouquet to the previous house. The flowers are all white, but they have subtle differences, some are pure white, some are off-white, and some have a hint of gray. While the differences aren't huge, each shade reflects a unique tone of white. It's funny that I'm surrounded by white flowers all the time, but I work at a shop that only sells white flowers. They pay me enough to save a good amount of money, though I do spend some as well. It's not like I save every penny.

I spend money on my sister, Luna. Whenever she asks for money, I have to give it to her. If I don't, she threatens to steal money from someone and use it at her school canteen to make even more. She's done that many times and brought that filthy money into our house—money that wasn't earned through our hard work. Whenever I scold her for stealing, she's so naughty that she'll show me her crocodile tears and then continue with her stubborn behavior.

Her father was the same. He used to be a scrap dealer. One day, while he was near a river, he found me unconscious on the sharp stones by the riverbank. I was only twelve years old then. He took me to his house and sort of adopted me—not officially, but I've been living here ever since, almost like a tenant.

I helped Uncle to transfer from his old job into a better one. Now, he works at a merchandise manufacturing factory. Luna has some small school expenses; she's only twelve, while I'm twenty-two and earning a decent amount of money by working nearby.

I could get a better job in the city, but I don't want to leave the town where I have memories of my late sister, Una. It's been twelve years since she died.

We were together in the orphanage when it happened. Una was killed by someone who stayed there with us. I never saw that boy roaming around; Martha said he never came out of his room except on days when he had a scheduled fight with another boy. He was known for setting dates for these fights. Martha, the elderly lady who managed things at the orphanage, told me he was incredibly strong. His punches were so powerful that it took other boys days to recover.

In Croydon, there are many transportation links, but this also includes smuggling. You can often find men carrying knives or other sharp instruments, making the area feel quite unsafe at times. Because of this, I asked Martha to assign me night duty at the orphanage. I can some ladies from a distance, chatting with people as they walk towards the church.

This morning was beautiful, the cold, refreshing wind felt wonderful. I walked up to a group of three ladies standing in someone's yard, murmuring to each other. Mrs. Thomas pulled me aside and included me in their conversation.

Mrs. Smith, who was wearing a checkered coat over a black sweater, spoke up. "What does today's generation think of themselves?" she said. "They think they can shout at us whenever they please. I told the young woman that her tap was left running, and she snapped at me, saying I should mind my own business." Her hands were folded in front of her, and her hair was in a bun. Mrs. Smith used to be a teacher and is known for her sharp tongue, but it seems she was bested by this new girl in town.

It's only been a week since she moved into the area, and people are already gossiping about her and showing their dislike. "Lady Smith, this new generation doesn't respect us anymore. When we were their age, we had more regard for our elders," Mrs. Thomas said.

Mrs. Williams, standing quietly against the wall, nodded in agreement. She doesn't speak much; she's known as the quiet lady in town. There are rumors that her husband, a retired minister, used to beat her and perhaps still does. Because she came from a poor background, she's likely afraid to stand up to him.

"If my son were here, I'd teach that girl a lesson," Lady Smith added. Her son works in the city. I don't understand why people are so interested in others' dramas, they should focus on their own lives and problems. I worry that if they found out Luna steals, they'd gossip about her too.

"Do you think her parents are still alive?" Mrs. Thomas whispered, and Mrs. Williams nodded again. Poor soul.

"I wonder too. She must have been fighting with her parents like this, that's probably why they sent her away," said Mrs. Smith. "Don't you think she might be married and left her husband?" added Mrs. Thomas. I removed her hand from my shoulder.

"Yes, looking at the size of her stomach, it seems like it," Mrs. Smith said, disgustingly.

I felt a wave of sickness and offense rising within me from their comments. I stepped forward and stood straight, resisting the urge to confront them. "I'll see you tomorrow, ladies," I said with a forced smile. You can't argue with people whose minds are filled with nonsense.

"But Lime, I haven't heard you say anything yet. Share your thoughts!" Mrs. Thomas whined.

"Okay, tell me how you feel about the new girl who moved in," I replied, shaking my head. I kept a smile on my face to avoid offending anyone and to keep the peace.

These ladies seem like the devil's secondhand commanders to me. "I don't think there's anything left for me to say," especially with your vulgar conversations. The government should fine people for chats like these.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Smith."

I'm sorry to say this, but these ladies aren't good people. They're just wealthy, and I need money.

I quickly walked away before she could ask me to stay for the evening or pry into my life with Uncle. People don't know that I'm not his real daughter. Uncle moved here two years ago, and I've only started interacting with the town ladies a few months ago when I began delivering flowers to their homes.

I need to get to the orphanage. It's lunchtime, and Lady Queen will be busy eating. This is my chance to check the storeroom where the documents are kept. Otherwise, she'll catch me again, and this time, she won't hesitate to report me. Lady Queen had to face the court over my sister's death, and she has had to give answers repeatedly because of Una's death. That's why she despises me.

I entered the gate of the orphanage. A gust of wind swept in, bringing with it a bitter memory that lodged in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes as I reached the room where I once stayed. I gazed at the vacant bed, its white sheets neatly tucked, where Lady Quinn used to discipline us for any mischief. There were still six beds arranged in two rows of three. Sunlight streamed through the two large windows at the front. The same old books and dolls lay on each bed. I recalled how Una and I used to race to be first in line when the lunch bell rang.

Lady Quinn always had to make a show of it every day. Whenever she wanted to punish someone by withholding their meal, there was a heavy iron chain fixed to the wall. She would fasten it around a child's leg, forcing them to watch us eat. It was her way of punishing them by keeping them hungry, like a wolf eyeing its prey hungrily. I wondered if she still subjected the children to such treatment.

As I walked towards the store side of the cabin, I heard footsteps and quickly pushed myself into a room, hiding behind the door. My eyes fell on two bodies pressed closely together, kissing intensely. The door was slightly open, which explained why their moans were so faint. The woman had her back to me, but I recognized the man—Noah, the manager here. Did he bring his girlfriend? But wait... I think I know that woman too. When I noticed the red scarf tied around her blonde hair, I gasped. It was the scarf I had gifted to Martha. Could it really be her? "Martha?" I whispered.

The woman turned around, and both of them stared at me in shock, eyes wide. God, it really was Martha. The first thing that came out of my mouth was, "Don't tell me you were forced into this." A surge of anger rose in me as I saw Noah smirking and wiping his lower lip with his thumb, like some kind of playboy who just had a conquest.

Martha quickly shook her head. "No, it was entirely consensual," she said, her eyes widening and a pink blush spreading across her face. Great, she really was living a young life at this age.

"Oh?" I eyed Noah and then looked at Martha, who was standing there, a blushing mess. "So, you like him?" I asked Martha, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of her liking someone from our generation. Boys and men nowadays—none of them love their women the way they used to. What if he hurts her? Just yesterday, I saw a news story about a boyfriend who killed his girlfriend, cut her into thirty-six pieces, and stuffed them into a bag before throwing it into a sewer. A wave of protectiveness surged through me, and a line of goosebumps traveled from my toes to the top of my head.

I took Martha with me outside the room, glaring at Noah before closing the cabin door. I dragged her down the corridor, and she quietly followed. After a few more steps, I stopped and turned to face her. She was biting her lip and looking around like a child in a new place, her eyes lingering on the beautifully crafted elephant on the wall. Lovely—she works here every day.

"What was that?" I demanded. "Do you know what kind of men there are these days?" He's in his twenties, and she's in her forties, for heaven's sake.

"But he might be better than Tom," she murmured. Tom. He's been dead for years, and it left a mark on Martha's mind. She loved him deeply and still believes he's alive. Maybe she thought of Noah as her husband and kissed him—that's why he reacted the way he did. She frowned, guilt washing over her face. "D-Did I just say Tom?" Her lips started to quiver. God, please forgive her; she's innocent in all this.

I pulled her into a hug, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I felt the shudder of her chest rising and falling as I patted her back. I realized the first layer of sobs was coming, and then the storm of tears burst out. I glanced at the time on my watch and sighed. Lunch break was over, meaning there was no chance for me to finish the work I had come here for. Why is being in love so hard? Martha always said we believe in gentle, kind love.

Nikola Tesla told us that three things influence every human being and every piece of equipment: energy, frequency, and vibration. With these, you can connect with someone or something. The same goes for love. You feel the energy, sense the frequency of love, and notice the vibration in their actions. I graduated last year, and my uncle generously provided the funds for me to complete my degree. He never compares me negatively to Luna.

As I brushed the toes of my slippers against the doormat before entering the house, I saw laundry spread across the couch, waiting to be folded. I placed the basket on the dining table and went straight to fold the clothes. A sigh escaped my lips as I thought, "I guess I'll have to try again tomorrow."

I swear on Una's late soul, I will drag that monster behind bars. Who killed my sister so brutally that night. A year ago, I went to the same police department where he was first arrested. The officer there, who now looks older because seven years have passed, told me that the boy was bailed out just a few months later with a high amount paid by some notorious gangster. He didn't even serve a full year for his crime.

Anger surged within me as I thought about how he deserved the death penalty. I imagined him living a life of luxury, sleeping on beds of cash, and it only infuriated me more. He doesn't deserve the peace of eating popcorn and watching movies. He deserves nothing but dry bread or perhaps only death.