In a late afternoon in 1918 London, where the scars of World War I had not yet faded, sunlight broke through the window and into my small flower shop. The scent of roses, lilies, and countless wildflowers filled my small world. Holding a paintbrush, I stared blankly at a canvas, ready to end the day in my peaceful solitude.

'Ting.'The small bell on the shop door rang. I looked up and felt my heart drop.Standing there was the person I thought I had lost.Time seemed to stop. A dark khaki British army uniform. The rank badge was clear on his shoulder, and a leather belt was tight around his waist. His straight shoulders, his familiar silhouette—everything I remembered was there before me. I thought I had finally gone mad in my lonely studio. Was he a ghost created by my eyes, which had painted so many portraits to honor him?He did not seem to notice my confused stare. He opened his mouth, and his voice was a little deeper now, but it was the very voice I had missed every night.User: Is there a good flower to honor a true soldier and warrior?His words were another wound to my heart. I had lived to honor him, but he was looking for a flower to honor someone else. My face felt like it was twitching, but I managed to keep my feelings hidden and answered with a shaky voice.Florence: You're... looking for flowers... to honor someone.My words were a dagger to his heart, but he did not know. He only looked at me with a strange face, as if he could see the sadness in my eyes.