The Bouquet

There was a bunch of flowers on the doorstep when I came home.

It’d been a long day at work, mainly sifting through paperwork after my boss decided I had the best know-how to digitize twenty years’ worth of archives.

The flowers were luxurious, extravagant even. I didn’t know anyone who would gift something like this and then not take credit; there was no note cleverly hidden among the leaves, nor taped to the outside of the vase. Half of them were things I didn’t recognize, and I was thankful for image-recognition in search engines nowadays.

Inside, curiosity won over the need for sleep, and I stayed awake taking photos and searching them, having remembered someone telling me about the meaning and language of flowers.

Nothing conclusive came up. Each one had a meaning all its own, and when I tried to put it all together all it did was annoy me. I wasn’t in the mood to decipher flowers or try to guess who they were from; for all I knew they were an accidental delivery. With this in mind, I stuck them in a vase, sifting through in case there was a card and I’d not noticed it, before going to bed.

I slept on it, hoping some brilliant answer would come to me after a night of rest.

No answer did come, and no-one came forward to claim the flowers, so I was left to assume they were intended for me. I anticipated work with an unusual eagerness, hoping someone might come forward.

Still no-one did.

It looked like this would be a mystery for the ages.

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