I can hear dying things talk.
Not people—thank God, not people. Just plants. Flowers, mostly, since I work in a flower shop. Right now, the roses in front of me are begging for water, and the orchid by the window won't shut up about how cold it is.
Yeah, I know how it sounds. Crazy. But I stopped caring about that a long time ago.
"Marcus! Customer!" Teresa yelled from the front.
I grabbed my shears and kept trimming. Customers were Teresa's job. I just handled the flowers. That was the deal when she hired me three years ago—she sells, I arrange, nobody asks questions about why I sometimes talk to the plants.
The shop bell rang. Someone walked in.
"I need flowers," a woman's voice said. "For my father's funeral. He died last night."
My hands stopped moving.
Funeral flowers were different. They soaked up grief like water. Long after they dried up and died, I could still hear them crying. I had a drawer full of dead funeral flowers at home that I couldn't throw away because they wouldn't stop screaming.
"I'm so sorry," Teresa said softly. "When's the service?"
"Tomorrow. Two PM."
I should've stayed in the back. Should've kept my head down and finished the rose arrangement. But something made me look up through the hanging plants that separated my work area from the store.
The woman was maybe thirty, with tired eyes and a coffee stain on her shirt she probably didn't notice. She looked like she hadn't slept. Like the world had just punched her in the face and she was still trying to figure out what happened.
"White lilies," she said. "He always liked things simple."
The lily behind Teresa whispered. Not words exactly, but feelings that turned into words in my head: *Clean. Peaceful. Easy death.*
I froze.
Plants picked up emotions from people around them. They absorbed feelings the way they absorbed sunlight. This lily had probably just been near someone talking about peaceful deaths or something.
But that's not what it felt like.
It felt like the lily knew something.
"We have beautiful lilies," Teresa was saying. "Let me show you—"
"Whatever you think is best." The woman handed over her credit card. Her hands shook. "I just need them to be perfect. He deserved better than... he deserved better."
She stopped herself. Swallowed hard.
Behind Teresa, the lily whispered again: *Not simple. Not peaceful. He knows. He knows. He knows.*
My heart started pounding.
"Actually," I heard myself say, stepping out from the back, "I'll handle this order."
Teresa's eyebrows shot up. I never handled funeral orders. Never.
The woman looked at me, surprised. Up close, I could see the dark circles under her eyes. The way her jaw was clenched tight, like she was holding something in.
"Your father," I said quietly. "How did he die?"
Her expression shuttered. "Heart attack. Why does that matter?"
It shouldn't. It didn't. I should apologize and go back to minding my own business.
But the lily wouldn't stop whispering.
*He knows he knows he knows not simple not peaceful he KNOWS—*
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll make sure the flowers are perfect."
She nodded stiffly and left.
The moment the door closed, Teresa rounded on me. "What was that?"
I didn't answer. I was staring at the lily, my pulse racing.
Because here's the thing about my ability that I'd never told anyone: plants don't lie. They can't. They just absorb and repeat, like recording devices made of chlorophyll.
Which meant that lily had absorbed something true.
Something about that woman's father.
Something that wasn't simple at all.
I pulled out my phone and did something I'd sworn I'd never do—I started digging into a stranger's life. The woman had used a credit card. Teresa's computer would have her name.
Ten minutes later, I was staring at a news article on my phone:
**Local Businessman Found Dead—Police Investigating**
My hands went cold.
The roses on my work table whispered: *Careful. Careful. Some things should stay buried.*
For once, I didn't listen.