When he called the florist, they explained the order had been placed by a man and that he’d not left too many details. But the explanation barely soothed him. If anything, it made the flowers feel like a clue he wasn’t interpreting correctly.
He imagined all kinds of possibilities: Clara planning something, Clara receiving private messages, Clara slipping into secret meetings. Every explanation felt more unnerving than the last. His thoughts tangled into a web of fear, connecting unrelated dots he couldn’t bear to ignore.