She mocked Maxwell’s earlier choice of words, and Vera could see she was trying to lighten the mood. Maybe she thought she was comforting her niece, but for some reason, all Vera heard was, You’re not special, little girl. Wipe those silly thoughts from your head, because you’ll never be one of us.

In her dream, Maxwell’s mother is a stunning beauty. She’s wearing a yellow-and-white-striped sundress with spaghetti straps that cross at her upper back. It’s the first really scorching summer day, and she’s enjoying the sizzling rays on her skin. She strolls down Main Street to the local pharmacy with a shopping list that includes dish soap, mascara, and allergy medicine.

She drifts past a diner, smelling pancakes and gooey syrup so rich that Vera can taste the maple on her tongue. Max’s mother’s skirt catches a breeze, and she smooths it down. She saunters toward an art gallery, handmade jewelry displayed in the window. She lingers, trimmed nails tapping the glass in quick cascades as the smell of first kisses wanders in on a breeze—lilies.

It reminds her of him, the feel of his fuzzy beard against her cheek and a fresh bouquet clutched in his hand. Lilies are the gift of time travel, back to the days when they were young and happy and alive. Instinctively, she moves toward the florist’s shop. His birthday is approaching—another year, another milestone. Without him. An ache stabs at her chest, a physical pain so sharp Vera grabs her abdomen in her sleep.

Then the woman’s eyes move across the picture window, reading the name of the shop painted in hunter-green cursive letters. Durand Flowers. Durand? It must be his widow. Or maybe the son. She hadn’t realized they bought the flower shop. Seth Durand died along with others—along with her person—and his family now sold flowers. They moved on.

The wound in her chest rips deeper. Why couldn’t she?

Her eyes slip to the intimate staging in the window, two gold-trimmed chairs pushed into a round bistro table covered with bone linen. It’s romantic, plucked from her happiest memories. There are two plates of fine china with delicate gold accents, real silver place settings, and between them an arrangement of bushy cream hydrangeas with powder-blue edges nestled in an antique brass watering can. Beside the bouquet, as if it were meant to be there, as if—of course—it would be part of the luscious table setting, is a statue of the Grim Reaper, sobbing. It’s petite, only a couple inches high, with ivory wings reaching toward the heavens and an unlit torch resting on a yellow book. She’s seen the hardback before, the cheery hats, the eclipsed suns. What was the name of the group again?

Her eyes strain to read the title and it’s as if a burst of floral air crashes into her. She stumbles back, her vision cloudy, ears buzzing.

Whispers. She hears whispers.

Lilith. Lilith, I’m here….

It’s his voice. It’s him. Where is he? Her head whips back and forth, searching, pleading, then her chest pulls toward the glass door, toward the scent of him. Her body knows where it wants to be. She tugs open a portal to the day their picnic blanket lay on the grass and he slid a flower into her hair, her first lily.