Until Spring

The clock on the wall chimed half past seven as Persephone bid Mr. Silkins goodnight. He shuffled out of Petals and Lace, arms full of daisies and peonies.

“Enjoy the wedding!” she called after him.

The door closed gently behind him, shutting out the chilly November air. Persephone shivered. Winter was approaching fast, and it would bring more than just the cold— It would be accompanied by the harsh loneliness of slower business.

We’ll get through the winter, she told herself. I’ll find a way.

“Persephone?” her mother’s voice called from the greenhouse.

“Yes?” she responded, walking towards the welcome warmth of the greenhouse. She found her mother tucking away her gardening gloves for the night.

“My dear, I’m trusting you to close up shop tonight. I’m going to get dinner started.”

Mama Dee kissed her daughter’s head.

“I love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, my dear.”

And her mother retreated up the stairs and out of sight.

Pulling her hair back, Persephone returned to the counter and admired the final bouquet of the night. Its roses were vivid and blooming, soft to the touch and beautiful to the eyes.

The clock chimed 7:45 just as the door opened, and a gust of cold wind blew through.

Persephone looked up—and time seemed to still.

“Hades,” she said softly.

He stood framed in the doorway like the final stroke of a painting: tall and commanding, his presence impossibly sure. The overhead light caught the bronze of his skin, gilding the sharp lines of his face. Jet-black curls, swept back with effortless precision, crowned his head. Every inch of him was deliberate—immaculate and beautiful. He brought with him the scent of winter and something darker—earthier, like ripe pomegranates and whiskey. He tugged his scarf loose and slid it into the bag at his side. She knew what it held. Estelle’s pomegranates, always the same.

“Persephone,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips was a caress.

“Right on time.” She murmured, pushing the roses across the counter.

“Always am.”

Their eyes met. His—amber and shadow—held hers like gravity. After months of him as a customer, Persephone thought she would’ve been used to his gaze by now, but it still surprised her. There was a deep understanding in them—a quiet knowing—and an anger that never frightened her. Only fascinated.

She swallowed, willing her heart to steady.

“Just the roses?” She managed.

He let out a hint of a chuckle, and her chest warmed in response.

“Persephone,” he said again. “Have I ever said otherwise?”

She blushed, her gaze falling to the counter.

“Please sign here.”

He took the pen from her, signing his name in neat, precise handwriting.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now. “Estelle asked after you today.”

“She—she did? What did she say?” Persephone stammered.

Hades smiled, truly smiled, and handed the pen back to her. Their fingers brushed.

“She said your smile was wasted behind this counter.”

Persephone couldn’t think beyond the caress of his warm fingers.

“And what did you say back?” she asked quietly.

He turned toward the door.

“That I agree.”

And then he was gone.

Persephone watched him disappear into the night, grinning as the last dredges of sun vanished, giving way to night.

…

Another week inched by.

Seven days of cold mornings and colder nights. Business slowed with the incoming frost as Persephone ladened herself with blankets before braving the freezing storefront.

At 7:42 on Monday night, she placed the fresh bouquet of roses on the counter, fidgeting with the ribbon on the stems.

And Persephone waited, until the little cuckoo bird chimed 7:45 and—

No one came.

Hades was late.

7:46… 7:49…

Each passing second made her heart sink lower. Had he fallen ill? Moved elsewhere?

His appearance in her life had been a tether she didn’t realize was so crucial to her. Her breath quickened as she spun, off-balance in this world without Hades.

When the bell rang two minutes later, it wasn’t him. Just a stranger, flushed and out of breath. Persephone struggled to collect her thoughts.

“Can I help you—?”

The small man, red in the face, didn’t even let her finish. He tossed an envelope at her, took the rose bouquet and scurried out the door.

She called after him with the receipt but didn’t dare chase after him in this weather.

Frustrated, Persephone returned to the counter and leaned against it, admiring the envelope in her hands.

Black wax. Pomegranate seal.

She broke it open and pulled out the short letter.

Her heart stuttered at the familiar handwriting.