Chapter 72 Ginger
Chapter 72 Ginger
♤YASMIN♤
I arrive at the location quickly, and above the large glass window of a store, The Petals is written boldly in neon lights.
A sudden, dizzying wave of recognition hits me as I take a slow step forward. Looking down at the base of the storefront wall, I spot a small, rusty metal bracket. It is the exact spot where the stool from my hypnosis sits.
I close my eyes for a second, and a vivid image flashes behind my eyelids.
I see a younger version of myself running around this pavement, laughing and splashing water from a plastic bucket while a girl with bright, messy hair chases after me.
Did I not have any parents? I ask myself, the cold reality settling over my skin.
Was I entirely alone in the world?
I open my eyes and push the glass door open, and a small bell chimes overhead.
The air inside is a familiar mixture of soil and the fresh, green scent of stems.
I walk slowly past the displays, taking in the environment. My eyes scan the shelves, looking for anything that might spark another memory, until I freeze in front of a zinc bucket standing near the center display.
Inside are blue roses.
I walk up to them, my hand trembling slightly as I reach out to caress one of the petals. I lean down, inhaling the sweet scent and feeling a strange warmth bloom in my chest.
“Do you like them?”
A soft voice breaks the silence. I snap my head up to see a young lady in a green apron stepping out from behind a rack of ferns.
“Yes, I do,” I say, clearing my throat to keep my voice steady.
“Can I have them? Pack them up for me, please.”
The girl looks at me with a polite but apologetic smile, shaking her head.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma'am. Those are not for sale.”
I blink, confused. “They’re not for sale? Why keep them on display then?”
“They belong to the owner,” she explains, adjusting a pair of gardening shears on her belt.
“She grows them privately and keeps them here because they remind her of someone important.”
“Someone important?”
The lady opens her mouth to answer when a troublesome-looking customer calls out loudly.
“Hello, can you please pack these up for me?”
“Excuse me, ma'am, I have to go now,” the attendant announce, already turning on her heel, “but you can look around for other flowers. We have fresh white roses right over there.”
My mind immediately starts racing as the lady walks away to tend to the customer.
Reminds her of someone? Could that be me?
I know I have a strange fondness for blue roses, but I always assumed it was just a preference I developed overnight after my accident.
Could it be that someone has been keeping these flowers here for years in memory of me?
I shake my head fiercely, trying to ground myself.
Don't get way too ahead of yourself, Yasmin. You are not the only person in Illinois who likes blue roses.
I force myself to turn away from the display and continue walking around the store, using my eyes to scan every corner for clues.
I make my way toward the back counter, where a small shelf holds a few dusty frames.
The first frame contains an old photograph of a couple smiling outside the shop. Their faces look familiar, a warm tugging sensation pulling at the back of my mind, but I can't quite place where or when I saw them.
My gaze slides to the larger portrait right beside it. It features the same couple, but this time, a little girl is sitting on the man's shoulders, her arms thrown wide.
My breath catches in my throat.
The little girl has the exact same bright, tangled, messy hair as the girl from my memory.
It is Ginger.
I stand frozen in front of the portraits, my fingers clenching around the strap of my purse. The attendant notices me staring and walks back over, wiping her hands on a towel.
“You seem to be interested in the portraits more than the flowers, ma'am,” she notes with a friendly smile.
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual as I look at her.
“Who are they?”
“Oh, they are the original founders of the shop,” the girl says, her voice turning soft.
“But unfortunately, they died some years ago. So now, their daughter owns and runs the entire place.”
“Is this their daughter?” I press, pointing directly to the little girl with the messy hair.
“Yes, she is.”
“What is her name?”
“Caroline!” A sharp, authoritative voice calls out from the inner office behind the back door.
The petrified lady snaps to attention instantly.
“I need to get back to my post. Please do look around for whatever you want, and let me know if you need any recommendations.”
She turns quickly and hurries back toward the counter.
I stay rooted to the spot, my eyes locked on the wooden door behind the counter. A second later, the handle turns, and a woman steps out into the main shop.
The moment my eyes land on her face, my entire body freezes.
It is her.
It is Ginger.