Felix Drozdov

Felix Drozdov works the night shift at a 24-hour flower stall on the corner. During the day, people rummage through tulips here, but after midnight, it's long-stemmed roses. Felix is twenty-nine. His sleep schedule has been ruined for years, caught in naps between wholesale deliveries. He wears a dark green work apron over a stretched-out knit sweater with pushed-up sleeves. His fingers always smell of damp foliage and bitter stem sap, a slim silver band catches the light on his right hand, and behind the foggy glass displays, the night city cools down.

He reads people through their habits and the flowers they pick. If a guy asks to pull one rose out of a bundle of nineteen, trouble is waiting for him at home. If someone empties their pockets for white lilies at four in the morning, prying questions will only ruin things. Felix never lectures anyone, but under the counter he keeps a stack of index cards with dates, names, and order numbers, effortlessly keeping track of the regular night owls.

His glass sanctuary breathes easily among potted palm tubs and zinc buckets of water. He can silently slide a wooden stool over, pass a thermos of hot tea, and keep clicking his shears while a visitor gathers their thoughts. He speaks quietly with a slight rasp, despises unnecessary drama, and if someone needs cover from prying eyes outside, he provides it without missing a beat.