Oscar Alarie

The bell above the door at Swanson’s Flower Shop rang with a tone that seemed almost too delicate for the world outside. Evansville, 1910, a town that smelled of river water and coal smoke, where the streets held the quiet rhythm of a place that thought it knew all its people. Everyone knew of Vera Swanson, but few could say they truly knew her.

She was always kind, always precise. Her gloves never smudged, her smile never faltered. The shop itself was an orchestra of color, violets leaning into morning light, hyacinths whispering their perfume into the wooden beams, and lilies so white they made the air itself seem cleaner.

But it was her blue arrangements that no one could forget. Shades of Blauw, she called them. Cornflowers, delphinium, forget-me-nots, blended so perfectly they almost shimmered. Folks swore those bouquets stayed fresh for weeks longer than any other.

When asked her secret, Vera only smiled and said, “It’s in the soil.”

And it was true. Her flowers grew stronger, taller, more vivid than any others in the region. The soil around the Swanson property was dark as ink, soft and rich, as if the earth itself was grateful.

At the back of her shop hung a small painted sign:

“All things return to the ground and the ground remembers.”

No one thought much of it then. Not the travelers passing through, not the lovers buying blooms for weddings, not even the men who disappeared every few months on the long road toward Crimson’s Apple Orchard.

In Evansville, things grew. And that was good enough.

• Chapter I: Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (continued): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (final): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter II: Shades of Brzoskwinia
• Chapter III: Shades of Natura
• Chapter IV: Shades of Violaceous
• Chapter V: Shades of La Couleur Bleue
• Chapter VI: Shades of Brun
• Chapter VII: Shades of Noire
• Epilogue: The Geddes Report

The first man to vanish was a salesman from Chicago.

A talkative sort, always tipping his hat too quickly and trying to charm every lady behind a counter. He’d stopped in Evansville for the night, roomed at the boarding house and spent the next morning buying flowers. A dozen blue stems wrapped in soft paper, tied with a navy ribbon.

Mrs. Landry, who ran the boarding house, remembered his last words clearly.

“Heading out east, through the orchard road. Might stop by for apples if time allows.”

He never did.

A few weeks later, Sheriff Dalrymple came calling at Vera’s shop. The bell sang the same delicate note. She looked up from trimming the stems of an indigo bouquet.

“Afternoon, Sheriff. Something the matter?”

He asked his questions, polite at first. Travelers missing, last sightings, that sort of thing. Vera listened carefully, hands folded in her apron, nodding at the right moments. Her answers were clean and unhurried.

“Yes, he bought flowers. Blue ones. Said they reminded him of Lake Michigan.”

“No, I didn’t notice anything odd.”

“No, he didn’t seem in a rush.”

The sheriff thanked her and left with a handful of daisies she insisted he take, “For your wife’s table.”

When the door closed, Vera stood in the quiet for a long while. The scissors in her hand glinted under the lamplight. She exhaled softly and turned toward the back of the shop, where the faint smell of apples drifted in through the open window.

Behind the counter, a small journal lay open on her desk. The page was dated two nights prior.

Blauw, soil mixture holds well. Roots strong. Fragrance deepens after rain.

And beneath the note, pressed between two waxy leaves, was a scrap of fabric, navy cotton, the kind used for traveling coats.

Outside, the sky was turning the same deep blue as her flowers.

• Chapter I: Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (continued): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (final): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter II: Shades of Brzoskwinia
• Chapter III: Shades of Natura
• Chapter IV: Shades of Violaceous
• Chapter V: Shades of La Couleur Bleue
• Chapter VI: Shades of Brun
• Chapter VII: Shades of Noire
• Epilogue: The Geddes Report

Evening came slow over Crimson’s Orchard.

The trees were heavy with fruit, pale red with veins that shimmered almost violet in the dusk. The air was sweet, the kind that clings to your throat and leaves a taste behind.

Vera parked her wagon near the edge of the grove. No one came this far anymore, not after the county closed the road past the 30-mile mark. The dust settled around her boots as she stepped down, pulling her shawl tight against the chill.

She walked between the rows, her fingers brushing the low branches. Every few steps, she paused, listening. The orchard was alive with whispers: wind moving through leaves, faint shifting in the soil.

At the center of the grove stood an old wooden table, half sunk into the ground. Jars and clippings covered it, neatly arranged. Beneath it, a small pit. The soil inside was darker than it should have been, rich, damp, breathing.

Vera knelt, humming something soft. The tune was old, her mother’s, perhaps her grandmother’s before that. From the satchel at her side, she drew out a folded bundle wrapped in blue linen. She didn’t look inside. She never did.

The offering was gentle, almost reverent. A motion practiced a hundred times. The ground accepted it without sound.

As the last of the twilight faded, a faint shimmer rolled through the orchard. The apples above her glowed faintly, like lanterns behind a veil. And from the soil, new stems began to rise, small blue shoots unfurling their first petals.

Vera stood, brushed her hands clean, and smiled.

“Good to grow,” she whispered.

Then she turned back toward Evansville, where her shop waited, and another bouquet would soon bloom, the perfect shade of Blauw.

• Chapter I: Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (continued): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (final): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter II: Shades of Brzoskwinia
• Chapter III: Shades of Natura
• Chapter IV: Shades of Violaceous
• Chapter V: Shades of La Couleur Bleue
• Chapter VI: Shades of Brun
• Chapter VII: Shades of Noire
• Epilogue: The Geddes Report

By the spring of 1914, Swanson’s Flower Shop had become the talk of Evansville.

Every table at the Elm Street Tea Room boasted one of Vera’s bouquets, soft peach roses and apricot carnations wrapped in cream paper and tied with silk ribbon. They seemed to glow even in dim light, and people swore they carried the scent of sunlight itself.

No one could explain how Vera kept her flowers so vivid, how they stayed alive far longer than any others. Some said she had a greenhouse up by the old orchard, others whispered about her late-night wagon trips toward the edge of town. But when asked directly, Vera would just smile that gentle smile and say, “It’s the soil. You just have to know how to talk to it.”

It was around then that Mr. Whitaker went missing.

He’d been a traveling seed merchant, the kind who’d steer his cart from state to state, swapping stories and samples. He came into town boasting he had found a new breed of rose that would put Swanson’s to shame. He stopped by the shop twice that week. The second time, he didn’t leave.

His cart was found thirty miles east, near Crimson’s Orchard, a basket of half-eaten apples in the back.

Still, the bouquets kept coming.

The new arrangements had a warmth to them, soft, almost blushing shades that brightened any room. Customers said the scent changed depending on who held them, sweet for some, bitter for others. Those who left the flowers too long in water claimed the blooms pulsed faintly beneath the surface, like breathing.

When asked about the new hue, Vera said it was called Brzoskwinia.

A foreign word, one she said came from her grandmother’s tongue, “It means a blessing for good weather and good fortune.”

That spring, Evansville had the longest bloom season anyone could remember.

The days were warm, the nights were soft, and only one person ever mentioned the faint hum that came from Swanson’s greenhouse after dark, like bees in glass jars, or whispers beneath the floorboards.

• Chapter I: Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (continued): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (final): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter II: Shades of Brzoskwinia
• Chapter III: Shades of Natura
• Chapter IV: Shades of Violaceous
• Chapter V: Shades of La Couleur Bleue
• Chapter VI: Shades of Brun
• Chapter VII: Shades of Noire
• Epilogue: The Geddes Report

1917

The war had made its way into every home, every parlor table, every newspaper, every whispered letter folded and sealed with trembling hands. Evansville had grown quieter; the young men were gone, and the streets echoed with ration wagons and church bells.

But Swanson’s Flower Shop never lacked for beauty.

While gardens across the state withered under drought and dust, Vera’s blooms thrived. She began selling what she called Natura Bouquets, vivid greens and soft ivory petals woven through with strange, unfamiliar vines. The leaves shimmered faintly in the sunlight and their scent was fresh as rain after thunder.

Customers said the bouquets brought calm, that keeping one in the home soothed nightmares, eased headaches and made the air feel lighter. Even soldiers’ widows claimed the flowers whispered in the night, saying names that were long gone but still remembered.

When asked about her success during such lean times, Vera laughed softly.

“Nature always provides for those who listen,” she said. “But she asks for something in return.”

Few knew that Vera had started visiting Crimson’s Orchard again. The path there was overgrown now, the trees heavy with fruit that never spoiled. She took her cuttings in secret, always at night. Locals who lived near the county road said they sometimes saw a soft green glow drifting through the fog, moving slow between the trees.

That autumn, a doctor from Indianapolis came to study her soil. He praised its fertility, calling it “unnaturally rich.” He left town the next day, leaving his equipment behind. The people assumed he’d returned to the city.

Vera’s new arrangements began to show faint streaks of deep green in their stems, like veins beneath translucent skin. She called them living stems. And though few ever said it aloud, the bouquets were more beautiful than ever, alive in a way flowers shouldn’t be.

By winter, the shop’s window display was filled with the Natura collection, a lush, breathing portrait of impossible life in a dying world.

It is whispered and has been confirmed as fact that through the coldest most bitter winters in Evansville, the ground behind Swanson’s Flower Shop, refuses to freeze.

• Chapter I: Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (continued): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter I (final): Shades of Blauw
• Chapter II: Shades of Brzoskwinia
• Chapter III: Shades of Natura
• Chapter IV: Shades of Violaceous
• Chapter V: Shades of La Couleur Bleue
• Chapter VI: Shades of Brun
• Chapter VII: Shades of Noire
• Epilogue: The Geddes Report