Chrysanthemum Book Online Novels & Stories

Luciano said to me then strutted out of the shop to receive his call, while I remained with the florist. "I'd like some roses please," I said to her with a smile. "Well, Miss..... since you said it's for your friend at the hospital, I'd advise you to go with the chrysanthemum flower." She suggested. "Oh really, why is that?" "Well, apart from the flower having so many health benefits, it helps to ward off bad spirits and promote good—" She was still talking when my eyes drifted to Luciano, who was engrossed in his phone calls. I was just about to return my gaze to the florist when a distant figure across the street caught my attention.

The morning sun broke gently through the long curtains of Emilia Grace’s bedroom. A soft floral breeze drifted in through the open window, but it wasn’t what woke her. It was the scent—floral, delicate, and familiar. She blinked, then sat up slowly, her breath catching in her throat. Chrysanthemums. Hundreds of them. Delicate blooms in ivory, blush, and soft lavender filled the entire room. They lined the window sills, spilled across the vanity, nestled in vases on every surface. The air was soaked with their quiet, noble fragrance.

He strode closer towards me while hiding something behind his back. "Flowers for my beautiful wife." He gave me a quick kiss, and the flowers smelled so beautiful as I accepted them. It's a double purple chrysanthemum mixed with pink roses and baby breath. Enzo remembers that I love this combination, and these are my favorites. When I was in Sorrento, I had chrysanthemums in my backyard in mixed different colors. Chrysanthemums are mother's love flowers. They bloom in May, Mother's Day month, and they're beautiful. Every color has its scent except for the white ones.

Everett said and sat down next to me. "Thank you," I said then took a cup of chrysanthemum flower tea. I inhaled its distinctive and fresh aroma. Makes my body fresher and more energetic. "How? Does it taste good?” Everett asked after I tasted the chrysanthemum tea. I nodded slightly and cupped the warm cup. "Thank you for taking care of me like this," I said feeling bad. "It's okay, I actually feel bad because I can only give you this simple banquet."

If I walk into that room now, and he’s still like that… I might break into pieces I can’t put back together. “I will, but not yet.” He didn't say anything to that, just went to the drivers seat and started the engine. --- The bell above the little flower shop chimed when I pushed the door open. The air smelled of fresh lilies and roses... and maybe something green and fresh. My fingers touched every bloom like they could whisper to me. And then I saw it...a single white chrysanthemum. “I’ll take this one,” I said.

I sat down on the quilted blanket which covered her bed and looked about, taking in her neatly organised dressing table, the pile of books next to the small armchair which faced the window, and the thick, leather bound book next to her bed. I picked up the book and stroked the leather cover before I flipped it open and stared at the pressed flower on the page - a daffodil. Flipping through the book I noticed the pages filled with pressed flowers of every type, their names written in elaborate writing beside them. No matter what had happened over the years, a piece of April still remained in Harley and that made me smile. My phone rang and I set the book back, answering the call.

The hut was filled with herbs, candles and books scattered everywhere, the opposite of what it was when I came here last time. “Yes, please come this way,” She led us to the middle table where a large, old book lay open. She gestured for us to sit down and then pointed at the book. “Look at this. Do you know what this is?” We leaned over to take a close look at what she was pointing at, and it was a drawing of a flower. It was white and purple with four petals and a gold centre. It looked delicate and beautiful, but there was also something eerie about it. Just looking at it gave me goose bumps.

Lifting the worn book, her lashes began fluttering behind her crystal lenses as she read the paragraphs: But there was one—a night blooming cereus—which was a particular favorite of Grace’s, and which, even after she knew she had not long to live, she hoped she would be spared to see bloom. But when she perceived she was failing so rapidly—quietly, peacefully, sinking to rest—she said—

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

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