The Last Flower
The flower shop was on a street that nobody walked by unless they had to. It sat between a locksmith who only fixed padlocks and a laundromat that smelled like other people's clothes. The sign said Evelyn's Flowers in letters that had been painted so long ago that only the curves of some of the letters were still visible. Thomas Webb saw it on a Tuesday in October. He was limping—his left leg...
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