Why did Tilly Ravensdale choose this specific flower shop, Cilla's Lilies, miles away from her art studio? It was fine enough, Dora supposed, but she knew Tilly would perhaps chide her for being late. Either way, Dora always enjoyed the heady aroma of fresh-cut stems, and in this case, the way the bright pink flower petals seemed to twinkle in the sunlight peering through the window.

It made her feel right at home for some strange reason. As she walked through the florist shop, the ancient hardwood floor creaked, groaning with every step she took. Not a soul was at the register and to Dora's chagrin, there was no bell to ring either.

What was she going to do? Shout at the top of her lungs she arrived? How rude that seemed, albeit tempting to do something like it. She chose to drum her fingers on the countertop. Maybe the person in the back would hear it or something.

While she waited, she eyed the cut bouquet of mums and soon enough, became entranced by it. The colors were rich and vibrant, full of life. Dora began to wonder what it would be like to work at a florist shop and allowed her mind to wander.

"May I help you?" A soft female voice asked.

"Such a beautiful bouquet," Dora said, her voice almost distant.

"Oh," she said, with a chuckle. "Yeah, it's for a wedding. I don't know why the bride chose these flowers for her wedding, but she was very specific this is what she wanted. Wait, are you here to pick up the flowers for the Jameson party? Wait," she said scratching her neck, relaying to Dora that she had gotten her dates mixed up.

Dora shook her head. "I'm with Tilly Ravensdale. I'm here to pick up the flowers for her still-life."

"Oh, yes. Right, I am sorry. I thought that she was coming to pick them up. She usually does. What's your name, so I can write it down on the pick-up sheet?"

"Dora," she said.,

"All right, Miss Dora," she said with a bright smile. "I'll be right back with them. You know, I had to bend over backwards for Tilly this time. We insisted that forget-me-nots are out of season and that we were unable to provide her with these, but I was able to find someone who keeps them year-round in greenhouses. She's a lucky woman, or else she'd be out of a commission."

"I don't really know anything about seasons and flowers," Dora admitted with a shrug. "I guess I'm the errand girl."

"Well, I'll get the flowers so you can mosey on out of here," she said, whisking herself away to the back of the store.

In truth, it seemed that more often than not Dora was running errands for Tilly and not learning much about art. It was a bit disappointing to her, and she knew that her father was excited for her to have something solid after graduating with a degree in Art History. It did not get her very far. Perhaps she should have considered English literature instead. One of her friends who had that major got accepted into law school. She did not have the musical gifts Phoebe, her stepmother had, so music was out of the question. What was she saying? Of course, she had it good. Why would she think something so out of line like that? Tilly Ravensdale was someone who graduated the top of her class at Ruskin, someone along the lines of Claude Monet, or even the famous Sarah Grayson herself. Dora knew that Tilly had some vague connection to her, and perhaps that is what influenced Tilly so heavily during her time at Oxford.

Like Sarah Grayson, Tilly had also grown up far removed from any position of affluence or any social standing, until marrying someone of prominence. But look how Tilly's marriage ended up. In a years-long battle, Tilly divorced her asshole of an ex-husband. It was one of the reasons why Tilly had even moved to New York City from England -- to get away from it all.

Dora, in secret, admitted to herself that the art that won her a myriad of awards in her younger years, was not as good as the raw, real art that had no social construct. No peering eyes. It was free and spirited, just like her.

It made Dora happy to see it, even if it wasn't what others would call art. It was perfect in her eyes.

"Miss Dora?" the voice cut through Dora's train of thought.

She saw the florist looking at her with a face the shade of alabaster. Her eyes were wide and it looked like she was about to cry as her hands shook. She shuffled her feet and took in a deep breath as she placed a hand over her chest.

"Is everything all right?"

"There's, um, well, there's been an issue." The florist frowned. 

Dora's heart squeezed and contracted until it hurt. The last thing she needed to hear were those words. An issue? Well, what kind of issue was it? Was it something that could easily be fixed? Did she perchance, choose the wrong shop? No, it couldn't have been that. The florist mentioned Tilly and the order was out of season to begin with.

"What's the issue?"

"The flowers have all wilted. They're dead. All of them. I'm so sorry," she said, frowning. "This is not good. I don't know what happened. They were fine this morning. Maybe I overwatered them? Maybe they should have been kept in a greenhouse. God, I'm going to lose Tilly as a client. Please, please tell her they are free of charge. I will refund her everything. I'll call her now."

The florist grabbed the store phone out of the cradle and dialed the number.

"Tilly, it's Cilla Kent here. Look, there's been an issue with your flower order. All of the flowers have wilted. No, unfortunately, the petals have all fallen. Oh, no. Your client expects a completed painting by this weekend? Tilly, there's nothing I can do. The greenhouse lady in the Hamptons said this was her last stock. I'm sorry, yes. I understand. I'll refund you today. You'll be seeing the refund in a few days, all right? Wait, you still want the flowers? But why? Oh ok, I see, I see. All right. I'll give them to the girl here. Yes, Dora. She's here. All right, I'll let her know. Bye, girl. See you. Okay, bye. Bye."

The girl, apparently named Cilla, walked up to Dora and said. "She wants to paint them still. She can make it work, I guess. Tilly's an odd woman, don't you think? Honestly, I think it's because of my sister she is fine with it, but I digress. Here are the flowers. You have a nice day, all right? Got to get back to these bridal bouquets. I've got sixteen more to do. Who has that many bridesmaids? Wealthy girls in the Hamptons, I'll tell you that." She shook her head and returned back to her work.

The flowers were an unpleasant sight to behold, with mangled stems and light cornflower blue petals scattered in the cardboard tray, Dora felt her body sink. The forget-me-nots, all of them, were no longer alive. No longer beautiful.

Tilly Ravensdale's avant-garde art studio, situated in an apartment overlooking Central Park, was a constant source of inspiration for Dora. She loved to stare outside the large old window and wondered what it would look like to go into Central Park and just paint freely, any subject. It was what she wanted to do the most, not really run and get things for Tilly. She loved to close her eyes and imagine herself owning this apartment, painting the day away without a care.

"Do you have them? Tilly asked walking in the living space, holding a large goblet-shaped glass of wine, a deep red. It was definitely Cabernet Sauvignon, Tilly's wine of choice. She was dressed in a long, floral dress, which was typical of her. It almost reminded Dora of

"Drinking at one in the evening?" Dora asked, arching a brow.

"After the day I've had?" She drew out as languid sigh as she took a sip. "It's five o'clock somewhere. Help yourself to a glass if you wish."

"Touche," Dora said, chuckling. "Yeah, I don't know why you wanted to keep them though, the flowers, I mean."

"I'll teach you how to properly paint death in an impactful way," she said. "I guess my client can wait. Death can be a powerful subject to paint, and there is so much to tell about it."

"You're right," Dora replied, nodding.

"I'll ask you one question before we begin. Do you know the meaning of painting a dead flower?" she asked.

"Well, it means death, cause you're showing death in your painting, but I have a feeling you might be looking for something a little deeper than that."

Tilly shook her head. "My grandmother was the one who told me this one," she said to Dora, pointing a finger at the easel. "It means memento mori. Remember that once this flower was alive, you too will die. It's quite morbid, I know, but it's an important message. So let's get to it. Let me see these flowers. I just realized I haven't seen them yet."

Tilly walked up to the tray of flowers, situated on top of the counter by the kitchen. The lights were dimmed, very slightly, but Dora noticed something unusual coming from the box. Wait, she thought. The light coming from the box. It was familiar. That same, beautiful purple glow from the antique shop.

She wanted to move an inch forward and tried with all of her might, but it was as if some force was preventing her from doing anything at all. She winced, trying to push herself through it, but couldn't. It nearly hurt her, so she stopped and stood in the center of the room, while Tilly was motioning Dora to come and see. Tilly asked her to come a second time and Dora tried to explain with her words that she could not move, but her mouth was also limp on her face. Not again. Not this.

Anything but this. All she wanted to do was get back to that glow. Touch it with her own hands. Feel it coursing through her body like it did at the shop. The memory of the room, and the picturesque, placid scene that unfolded before her eyes. It was something akin to pure bliss.

But as soon as she was move an inch, the glow disappeared as quickly as it came and with that, Dora's heart sunk.

"Finally you move," she said, shaking her head. "Dora, are you quite all right? You look rather pale."

"I couldn't move for a minute. I was trying to talk to you, but I couldn't."

"Are you sure you don't need to rest? Love, I know you forgot about today, but you are here and I'll forgive you for it, but you look exhausted. You looked exhausted the moment you walked in, and that's unlike the chipper energetic girl I know. You need to see this. Did you and Cilla play a prank on me about the flowers?"

"No," Dora said, shaking her head.

Her eyes could not believe what they were seeing. Inside the cardboard box were the most resplendent flowers she had ever seen. They were glowing on the own, the purple glow that shimmered against Dora's pale fingers.

I have to touch it.

She touched it, but to her disappointment, nothing happened. No grand image. Not even a jolt.

"They're alive," she said. "I swear they were dead at Cilla's shop."

How on earth? How did this happen? She stood there in awe. They were once dead, not even a single petal on the stems of these tiny little flowers and here they were, brighter than ever before, glowing.

"Don't you see that glow?" Dora asked, with a huge smile.

"What glow?" Tilly asked. "There's nothing there."