Work Text:
I was on standby in my office during my night shift when my pager beeped against my hip. A loud, sharp noise that made me jump. I looked around, blinking through the haze, and realized I had fallen asleep on my couch. A second later, my phone buzzed with a text from the nurses' station: Dr. DeLuca, you are needed in delivery room three.
I sighed and rubbed my face. I hurried to my desk and downed the remains of my cold coffee in one bitter swallow. I didn't care about the taste; I just needed the caffeine to bridge the gap between my exhaustion and my sanity. Without it, I didn't think my legs would carry me down the hall today.
I left my office and took the nearest lift to the third floor. The hospital was quiet at this hour. I stepped into the empty elevator, and the doors slid shut.
That was when I saw myself in the lift door. The doors were made of polished steel, acting like a dark, blurry mirror.
I looked terrible. My brown hair was messy, tied up in a loose, lazy knot that was falling apart. I had heavy, black circles under my eyes. Over my clothes, I wore my crisp white doctor's lab coat. On the chest, stitched in neat blue letters, it read: Carina DeLuca, M.D., FACOG.
It was an impressive title. A title I had worked my whole life for. But looking at my reflection, I just felt like a ghost haunting these halls. The woman staring back didn't look like a top-tier doctor. She looked hollow. The light inside me, the spark that used to get me through these long shifts, had burned out completely.
It died exactly one month ago with a phone call in the middle of the night that changed my life forever.
The lift opened with a soft ding, pulling me out of my dark thoughts.
I stepped out onto the third-floor maternity ward. Nurse Tyler was waiting for me right outside the doors. He quickly handed me the thick blue patient chart.
"Sarah Evans, thirty-two years old, thirty-nine weeks pregnant," Tyler said, walking fast beside me. "Her water broke an hour ago. She is fully dilated, Dr. DeLuca. The baby’s heart rate is stable, but she is getting very tired. It is time."
"Thank you, Tyler," I said. I took a deep breath and put my professional mask back on. I pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Delivery Room Three.
The air in the room was thick. It smelled of sweat, salt, and the sharp, clean scent of hospital soap. To any other person, it was a scary smell. But to me, it usually smelled like life. Like a new beginning.
I washed my hands, snapped on my sterile gloves, and sat at the end of the bed. Sarah was crying, holding her husband's hand tightly.
"Okay, Sarah, look at me," I said. My voice was steady and calm. It didn't sound like the broken woman in the elevator. "You are doing great. But I need you to push now. Come on, Sarah, just one more. Follow my voice."
The mother gave one last, loud cry that bounced off the white walls. I moved my hands quickly and carefully. A few seconds later, I caught the baby. A small boy, wet, angry, and crying very loudly.
In that tiny moment, hearing that first breath of life, the heavy weight in my chest felt a little lighter. Just for a second, the world felt okay.
"Time of birth, 07:14 AM," I announced, smiling behind my medical mask.
I finished my work. I checked the baby’s heartbeat and breathing. I handed the little boy to his mother and watched the parents cry with pure joy. It was a beautiful thing to see. But as soon as I walked out of the room, threw my bloody gloves in the trash, and closed the door, the dark clouds rushed back into my head.
Every morning for the last thirty days felt exactly like this. I woke up, I saved lives, and then I remembered the accident.
I walked slowly back to my office. My legs felt like they were made of stone. Today was my birthday. Forty years old. I don't really do big parties. I prefer to sit, drink wine with a few friends, and have an intimate day with someone I love.
But now, walking down the quiet hallway, the silence was too loud. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want anyone to say “Happy Birthday” to me.
I reached my office and pushed open the door. I stopped right in the doorway.
The room didn't smell like old coffee and paper charts anymore. It smelled fresh. It smelled like a summer garden.
Sitting right in the middle of my desk was a massive bouquet of flowers. They weren't roses. They were sunflowers. Twelve huge, bright, yellow faces looking right at me.
"Who put these here?" I asked the empty room. My voice was just a low, sad whisper.
My heart started to beat very fast, hitting painfully against my ribs. It physically hurt my chest to look at those yellow petals. Only one person ever sent sunflowers when I was sad, or stressed, or when it was my birthday.
It’s the happy flower, Carina. It’s yellow like the sun. Those words kept playing on a loop in my mind.
I walked closer to the desk. I saw a small, thick paper card tucked between the green leaves. My hand started to shake. I couldn't control it. As I reached out to take the card, my tears started falling abruptly. They dropped hot and fast onto my white doctor's coat.
I pulled the card open. The writing on the paper made me stop breathing.
It was messy. The letters leaned too far to the side, written in a rush. I knew this handwriting better than I knew my own face. I had seen it on a thousand grocery lists, sticky notes, and birthday cards.
"Happy Birthday. Don't work too hard. And keep bringing life."
And then there was the signature. A signature that, deep down, I knew was impossible to fake.
My fingers went weak. I dropped the card. It hit the floor with a soft tap. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. I put a hand over my mouth, backing away from the desk.
"Is this a joke?" I whispered to myself, my voice cracking.
Then, something inside me changed. The deep sadness shifted. It turned into a hot, burning fire in my stomach.
Someone was being incredibly cruel. Someone at this hospital thought it was a funny joke to copy that handwriting. Someone knew about our inside jokes, knew about the sunflowers, and wanted to mess with my head on the first birthday I had to spend without my other half. It was a sick, disgusting prank.
I turned around, ran out of my office, and yelled down the hallway. The anger gave me a sudden, loud voice.
"Elena! Come here right now!"
My young assistant practically ran down the hall, her eyes wide and scared. "Dr. DeLuca? What’s wrong?"
"The flowers," I pointed a shaking finger toward my open door. My whole body was trembling with pure anger now. "Who brought them? When?"
"Me... I mean,the courier dropped them off at the front desk about twenty minutes ago," Elena said quickly, her hands up in defense. "She said they were for Dr. DeLuca’s birthday. I thought they were from a secret admirer, so I put them on your desk to surprise you."
"A surprise?" My voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet floor. "Well, you definitely succeeded. You surprised me by putting flowers on my desk that were sent by someone who died a month ago."
Elena’s face went pale. Her mouth fell open. "I... I didn't know, Doctor. I swear. I am so sorry. I thought they were from an admirer. I didn't read the card."
I didn't say anything else. I spun around, went back into my office, and slammed the door shut behind me. I knelt down and grabbed the card off the floor. I wiped my angry tears away and looked at the back of the card.
There it was. A small logo stamped in the bottom corner. It was printed with gold, embossed letters in a fancy Latin style, displaying the name of a local flower shop.
I looked up at the clock on my wall. It was 08:05 AM. My shift was almost over.
I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket and typed the shop's name into Google. The place wasn't too far from Grey Sloan, maybe a nineteen-minute drive, but it wasn't close either. I found the phone number and pressed the call button.
I put the phone to my ear. It rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, it clicked over to a generic, automated robot voice.
"The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone."
I hung up the phone and threw it onto the couch. Whoever owned this shop hadn't even bothered to set up a proper voicemail. I ran my hands through my messy hair, pulling at the roots. I was so angry I could actually feel my teeth grinding together. My blood felt hot.
My shift was over in thirty minutes. But I couldn't do it. I didn't want to check on my patients. I didn't want to read my charts. I definitely didn't want to sit in this quiet, empty office.
I was going to find this shop. I was going to find this florist. I was going to find the heartless jerk who thought this was a funny thing to do to a grieving sister.
I didn't wait. I ripped my white coat off, grabbed my dark jacket from the chair, and of course, I grabbed that massive bouquet of sunflowers. I walked out of my office, moving fast. As I stormed past the nurses' station, I didn't even stop walking.
"I'm ending my shift early today, Elena!" I snapped, heading straight for the elevator.
I wasn't sad anymore. I wasn't crying. I was just very, very angry, and I was going to get some answers.
The drive from Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital to the address I found on Google took twenty-two minutes. It was raining, the classic Seattle morning drizzle that turned the whole city into a sad, grey picture.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned completely white. On the passenger seat next to me, the giant bouquet of sunflowers sat quietly. Every time I stopped at a red light, I looked at them, and a fresh wave of hurt and anger burned in my chest.
I parked my car on the street, two blocks away from the florist. I grabbed the heavy bouquet by the thick green stems, took the forged birthday card in my other hand, and walked down the wet sidewalk.
The address belonged to a street filled with small shops. Right in the middle was a store with a large, dark green awning. In elegant gold letters, the logo matched the one on the card perfectly.
I walked up to the door, my heart thundering, ready to yell. But the lights inside were off. A small sign hanging on the glass door simply said: CLOSED.
I frowned, pulling out my phone. Google clearly stated the hours were 8:00 AM to 8:00 PM. Why were they closed? I was too angry to go home, too restless to just drive away. Instead, I walked across the street to a small coffee shop, bought a plain black tea, and sat at a table by the window. I set the giant sunflowers on the table and stared at the dark flower shop like a predator waiting for its prey. I practiced my words. I just needed the truth. I needed to know who was playing this cruel game.
At 9:45 AM, a small, white delivery van pulled up to the curb right in front of the shop.
I didn't even wait to see the driver's door open. I stood up, left my tea steaming on the table, and marched across the wet street. I held the massive bouquet of sunflowers tightly against my chest, my knuckles white.
The figure from the van had walked to the back, their body obscured by the open doors as they reached for something inside. All I could see was the back of a dark jacket and a quick, efficient movement. I stopped just a few feet away, my reflection ghosting across the dark, wet pavement.
When the person finally turned around, they jumped violently, dropping a plastic crate of eucalyptus onto the sidewalk with a loud clatter.
"Oh!" she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "You scared me."
I blinked. My anger, which had been a roaring fire for the last hour, suddenly flickered.
She was shorter than me, with bright blonde hair pulled back into a practical braid. She wore blue jeans and a dark green apron heavily dusted with soil. She didn't look like a cruel prankster. She looked completely exhausted.
Her eyes dropped to the bouquet in my arms, and her expression instantly changed. The shock morphed into pure, wide-eyed panic.
"Oh god," she said, taking a quick step toward me, her eyes frantically scanning the yellow petals. "Did I mess them up? Are they wilting already? Did a stem snap in transit?"
I stood there, frozen. The air felt thin.
"You must be Dr. DeLuca, the birthday doctor," she said, her words rushing out at lightning speed as she bent down, grabbed the fallen crate, and fumbled for the keys in her pocket all at once. "Look, I am so incredibly sorry if the arrangement isn't perfect. My delivery driver called out sick at five this morning, so I had to rush the hospital drop-offs myself before picking up stock. I was moving too fast. If I missed a broken stem or bruised the petals, I will replace them right now."
Her hands were shaking slightly as she shoved the brass key into the door lock. The silver bell chimed sharply as she pushed the heavy glass door open. She didn't wait for me to speak; she was too busy trying to fix a disaster she thought she had created.
"Please, come inside out of the rain," she pleaded, holding the door. "I'll make you a brand new one. I'll give you a full refund."
I followed her inside. The air in the shop was warm and smelled heavily of damp earth, sweet roses, and sharp eucalyptus. It was a massive, peaceful contrast to the cold, sterile smell of the hospital I had just left.
She walked quickly behind a heavy wooden counter that looked like an old carpenter's workbench. She flipped a switch, and overhead lights bathed the room in a soft, yellow glow. She grabbed a small towel and hastily tried to wipe the dirt from her hands, her eyes still darting nervously to the sunflowers in my arms.
"You can just set them right here," the blonde woman said, tapping the wood. "I am Maya, by the way. Maya Bishop."
Bishop. The name clicked in my mind. It matched the elegant gold letters stamped on the back of the card. This was her shop.
I just stared at her, my heart pounding, still holding the massive bouquet against my chest. The silence stretched out, heavy and tense.
As she nervously rubbed the dirt off her palms, my eyes drifted over her shoulder to the wall behind the cash register. Framed neatly against the painted brick was a heavy gold medal. The ribbon was thick, and the small plaque beneath it read: London Marathon. Next to it was a framed newspaper clipping showing a younger Maya crossing a finish line, her face a mask of intense, exhausted triumph.
But right below those high-adrenaline memories was a completely different story. There was a framed first dollar bill from "Bishop Florist," surrounded by polaroid pictures of peaceful, beautiful flower arrangements and smiling customers.
Looking at the wall, it painted a clear picture. It was the story of a woman who had spent years running on intense adrenaline, only to finally stop and build a quiet life surrounded by beauty and peace.
"I am sorry about your flowers," Maya said with a quick, nervous laugh, pulling my attention back to her. She shifted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable with the quiet staring. "May I help you with that..."
"Maya. May I call you that?" I interrupted.
My voice wasn't a yell. It was barely a whisper, but it stopped her instantly.
She froze. The towel was clutched tightly in her hands, her blue eyes wide and attentive. She nodded her head softly.
I walked to the counter and gently laid the heavy bouquet down. The bright yellow petals looked almost too happy against the dark, worn wood.
"There is nothing wrong with the flowers," I said. My voice was shaking as the last bit of my anger completely evaporated. "They are beautiful. They are perfect."
Maya blinked, clearly confused. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch as the tension left her body. "They are? Then... Why are you here in my shop?"
"I am not upset about the quality of the flowers," I said, my voice shaking. I held out the small paper card. "I want to know who paid you to send these to me. I cannot accept this joke. I need the name of the person who actually bought them."
Maya looked completely confused. She took the small card from my hand, being careful not to get dirt on the heavy paper. She looked at the handwriting, and a soft look of recognition washed over her face.
"Oh, the sunflower order," Maya murmured. She turned around and walked over to a heavy leather ledger sitting next to the cash register. She flipped back a few pages, scanning the handwritten lines with her finger.
"Dr. DeLuca, nobody is playing a joke on you," Maya said, her voice very soft. "The buyer's name is right here on my invoice. Andrew DeLuca. He ordered them for you, and he was very specific about wanting exactly twelve sunflowers."
I stared at her. I waited for her to laugh. But her face was completely serious.
"Stop it," I whispered. My anger cracked, letting the deep panic bleed through. "Please, stop lying to me."
"I am not lying to you," she said gently, stepping back from the ledger. "He came into the shop himself. A tall guy, dark hair, very handsome. He talked really fast, and honestly, he looked a bit like you. He paid in cash and wrote that card himself right on this counter."
She tapped the worn wood with her finger.
My legs suddenly felt very weak. My knees buckled slightly, and the room started to spin. I had to grab the edge of the heavy wooden counter to stop myself from falling to the floor.
"No," I choked out, gasping for air. "No, that is impossible."
Maya saw my face go pale. She immediately rushed around the side of the counter and grabbed one of the tall wooden stools from the corner.
"Hey, hey, sit down," she said, her voice full of sudden worry. She took my arm with her clean hand and gently guided me onto the seat. "Put your head down. Just breathe. Wait right here, I am going to make some tea for you. Or coffee?"
I couldn't answer. I just leaned my weight against the stool, feeling like my bones had turned to glass. Maya didn't wait for a response. She hurried toward a small door at the back of the shop. As she moved, the air in the room seemed to shift. The earthy smell of wet soil was replaced by the delicate, calming scent of jasmine.
A few minutes later, she came back holding a ceramic mug. The hot tea was still steaming, sending little swirls of white vapor into the cool air of the shop. She placed it on the counter in front of me and then handed me a small glass jar of sugar with a tiny silver spoon.
"I don't know if you like it sweet or not, so please take this," she said softly. "Drink. We can talk after you have calmed down a bit."
I stared at the steam rising from the cup. My hands were still shaking, but the warmth of the mug felt good against my cold palms. I watched Maya as she stepped back, giving me some space. She picked up a small spray bottle and a cloth.
"I am just going to mist these ferns over here," she said, nodding toward a corner of the shop. "It needs to be done. Take your time, Dr. DeLuca. I am right here."
The rhythmic shush-shush of the water bottle was the only sound in the room. It was a kind gesture. She was staying busy so I wouldn't feel like she was staring at my breakdown. I took a slow sip of the tea. It was hot and floral, the jasmine soothing the tightness in my throat. I added a spoonful of sugar, watching the crystals disappear into the dark amber liquid.
The steam from the tea curled between us, and for the first time since I had walked into the shop, the world stopped spinning. Maya stayed where she was, leaning against the worn wood of the counter. She didn't press me. She didn't look away. She just waited with a quiet, blue-eyed patience that made the silence feel safe instead of heavy.
"Better?" she asked.
I nodded, my fingers still wrapped tightly around the warm ceramic. "Better. Thank you."
Maya leaned forward slightly, her expression turning serious. She looked at the sunflowers, then back at me. "Why are you so upset? I mean, I know you said it isn't possible. But could you please tell me? What did you mean?"
I took a shaky breath, the scent of the tea hitting the back of my throat. I looked down at the dark liquid in my cup. "Because he is gone," I whispered. "My brother. He died a month ago in a motorcycle accident. He has been gone for weeks."
I wiped a stray tear from my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling the sting of the cold air on my damp skin. "When that bouquet arrived at my desk this morning, with his handwriting on the card... I thought it was a cruel trick. I thought someone at the hospital was mocking me. I didn't think it was possible for a dead man to send flowers."
Maya didn't gasp. She didn't offer a fake, sugary apology. Instead, she just looked at the bouquet, her face softening into a look of deep realization. She reached out and touched the edge of the wooden counter, her fingers tracing the grain.
"A month ago," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "Then he must have come here just days before it happened."
I looked up at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He was really here? You are sure?"
"I am sure," she said, her voice steady and calm. "He came in on a bright morning, a lot like this one, but warmer. He didn't just walk in, he almost tumbled through the door. He had this energy about him, like he was in a hurry but also completely happy to be exactly where he was."
She stood up straighter, her eyes looking past me as if she could still see him standing by the window.
"He was wearing a dark leather jacket and had messy hair, like he had been running his hands through it all day. He spent about ten minutes just staring at the flowers in the buckets. He didn't want roses. He didn't want lilies. He walked straight over to the sunflowers and pointed at them with this huge, proud smile."
A small, painful laugh escaped my throat. That sounded exactly like him.
"He told me he wanted a dozen, but for next month. He asked me if it was possible to order them this early," she continued, a small smile appearing on her lips. "I told him of course it was, and I handed him that card to write out."
"When I checked the order slip just to make sure the delivery address was correct, I really thought you were his wife. I even told him it was rare for people to send sunflowers for their spouse’s birthday."
Maya laughed softly, shaking her head at the memory. "And he just barked out this loud, beautiful laugh. He said, 'No! She is my sister. My super crazy, super talented sister. She is a doctor at Grey Sloan, and bringing life into the world is her expertise. She is the better half of the DeLucas.'"
She paused, her eyes locking onto mine. "And then he added, 'She loves these because sunflowers follow the light.'"
I froze. The mug in my hand suddenly felt very heavy. I looked at her, my mouth open in shock. "He said that? Those exact words?"
"Exactly those words," she said, nodding. "He told me he wanted to make sure they arrived on the morning of your birthday, no matter what. He said he was worried he might have difficulty ordering them if he was out of the country, so he wanted to do it right then."
I looked down at the bright yellow petals on the counter. They weren't a joke. They weren't a prank. They were a bridge. He had known. Somehow, in his busy, beautiful, messy life, he had stepped into this quiet shop and left a piece of himself behind for me to find when I needed it most.
"He was so proud of you. He told me you were the light he followed. I think... I think he really wanted you to have these today."
I reached out and finally touched one of the petals. It was soft and cool. "He was always an over-thinker," I whispered. A fresh wave of tears hit my eyes, but these were different. They felt like a release. "He wanted to make sure I wasn't alone today."
Maya reached across the counter, her hand hesitating before she gently placed it over mine. Her skin was warm, and even though we were strangers, I didn't pull away.
"You aren't alone," she said.
I stared at the sunflowers, my mind already racing through ways to save them. I thought about silica gel, about resin, about freezing them in time. I couldn't lose this. I couldn't let the last thing he ordered for me turn into trash.
"How do I keep them?" I asked, and the desperation in my own voice surprised me. "I need to preserve them. I want them to stay exactly like this. Forever."
Maya didn't answer right away. She picked up a pair of heavy garden shears and began to idly trim the ends of some stray greenery on the counter. The snip-snip of the metal was the only sound in the shop.
"You don't," she said eventually. She didn't look up, but her voice was grounded. "If you preserve them, you kill them twice, Doc."
I flinched at the word. "Please, just call me Carina, but I… I just don't want the last thing he gave me to disappear. I can't let it just... go."
Maya set the shears down and leaned over the wood, looking at the bright yellow petals.
"I used to run marathons," she said, her blue eyes moving to mine. "I spent my whole life training for a few hours of effort. When you cross that finish line, it's incredible. It’s the best feeling in the world. But it doesn't last. The adrenaline fades, your breath comes back, and the race is over. You can't live on the finish line, no matter how much you want to."
She reached out and turned the bouquet so the largest sunflower was facing me.
"These aren't meant to be statues. They’re meant to be a moment. Andrew didn't pay for a piece of furniture; he paid for the way you felt five minutes ago when you realized he hadn't forgotten you. That feeling is a gift. The flowers are just the delivery system."
I looked at the thick green stems and the vibrant, happy petals. I thought of Andrew’s laugh and loud, sudden, and gone as quickly as it started. He never stayed still. He was never "preserved." He was always moving, always onto the next thing.
"He was never one for keeping things," I whispered, a small, painful smile pulling at my mouth. "He’d probably think I was being ridiculous."
"He'd probably tell you to put them in a vase where you can see them while you eat breakfast," Maya said, her voice softening. "And then, when they start to drop their petals, he’d tell you to throw them out and go buy yourself some more. The memory doesn't live in the vase, Carina. It lives in you."
I took a sip of the jasmine tea. For the first time in a month, I wasn't looking at the past or the future. I was just sitting in a warm shop, smelling the rain and the earth, holding a cup of tea given to me by a stranger who understood.
"He would," I agreed. "He’d tell me to stop being such a stubborn DeLuca and just soak up the sun while it’s actually out."
Maya laughed, a short, bright sound that made the shop feel a little less lonely. "Then do that. Take the win today. Let the flowers be enough for right now."
I reached for the heavy bouquet, pulling the sunflowers back into my arms. They felt different now. They weren't a burden or a cruel mystery anymore; they were a comfort. I turned toward the door, my hand on the brass handle, ready to face the Seattle rain again.
"Carina," Maya called out.
I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. She was standing by the counter, looking at me with a warmth that had nothing to do with the professional service of a shop owner.
"I know today is hard," she said, her voice steady and kind. "But if you find yourself feeling all alone, this shop is always open for you. You don't have to buy anything. You can just come in and look at the sunflowers. Or, if you need to keep your hands busy, I host a flower arrangement class here on Thursday nights. You are more than welcome to join us."
I stood there for a second, the bell above the door giving a tiny, silver chime as the wind shook the glass. I looked at her, then back at the shop with its smell of damp earth and its walls covered in memories of finish lines and new beginnings.
A small, genuine smile finally touched my face. I realized then that Andrew had been right to choose this place. It wasn't just the flowers that made me feel warm again; it was the woman who looked after them. He had found the one person in this city who could handle the weight of his final gift.
"Thank you, Maya," I said, taking a deep breath that actually reached my lungs for the first time all morning. "I think I would like that."
I stepped out onto the wet sidewalk. The rain was still falling, but the grey didn't feel so heavy anymore. I settled the sunflowers into the passenger seat and started the engine. I wasn't just taking home a bouquet. I was taking home the reminder that even when the sun goes down, the light it left behind is still real.
I was going to be okay. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Because for the first time in a month, I wasn't looking for a ghost. I was just holding the flowers.
"Flowers do not worry about how they are going to bloom. They just open up and turn toward the light, and that is enough. To be beautiful is not to last forever; it is to be a gift to the moment you are in." — Adapted from Amit Ray