willow stares down at the letter. it's so formal. it's so...unlike her. she can't fault her for that formality. she's just a kid and she's young, with her whole life ahead of her, and it was only supposed to be a summer gig anyway. the crumpled letter, from where willow had angrily thrown it in the trash, is sloppily smoothed, smeared with a bit of dirt. 

miss atkins, it has been an honor working for you these past few months. i appreciate everything you've taught me, but - 

and she stops there, tucks it away, and puts a smile on her face for the newest person who's walked into her threadbare shop. the chutes that had once overflowed with an abundance of flowers are near empty. some of the containers have been shoved as far back to the wall as possible to make room for roughshod shelving containing jars of honey. 

Blossom Delier

☉