He walked the same street every evening, always at 7:14.
The lamp outside the florist had flickered for months — sometimes on, sometimes off.
Tonight, as he passed, it lit up.
Soft, warm, perfectly timed.
He paused for no reason.
Looked up.
The message on the florist window read:
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
No one was inside.
The door was locked.
He smiled, then kept walking.