My husband called me one quiet afternoon, his voice carrying that warm, playful tone I’d always loved. “Sweetheart,” he said, half teasing, half confused, “are you ignoring me… or why haven’t you thanked me for the flowers?” I actually laughed out loud. Flowers? What flowers I walked around the living room like maybe I’d somehow missed a giant bouquet hiding behind a lamp. “No flowers came,” I told him, still smiling. “Not a single daisy. If you sent me some, they must’ve gotten lost on the way.” We joked about it, imagining a confused courier wandering the city with a bouquet, trying to match it to the right door. We shrugged it off — delivery mistakes happen all the time. It was nothing worth worrying about
But then… it happened again.
Two days later, he asked if I liked the new bouquet he’d ordered. My smile froze.
Again? Nothing had arrived. My husband sent me the receipt, the florist confirmation, the delivery timestamp. Everything was correct down to the minute.
That’s when a strange little knot formed in my chest. Not fear. Not suspicion.
Just… unease. Like the story wasn’t adding up. Like a question was knocking quietly in the back of my mind, asking to be acknowledged.
