The Bouquet That Pointed North — By the river market, Renny tucked the ribbon knot tight and hurried between fish bells, fruit crates, and puddles bright as coins. Read the full story →
By the river market, Renny tucked the ribbon knot tight and hurried between fish bells, fruit crates, and puddles bright as coins. She wanted to deliver the festival bouquet before the noon boats blew their horns, but every turn smelled of oranges, wet rope, and pepper buns, and curiosity kept pulling her sideways. The ranunculus heads seemed to tilt together whenever she passed an alley, as if the flowers were listening to streets.
At the blue awning, a silver moth landed on the ribbon and tapped twice—tick, tick. “Not that way,” it whispered, its wings dusting her thumb like powdered moonlight. Renny spun around. The fern fronds were not just leaves; they made arrows. The tiny buds marked bridges. The curled petals opened in rings like river eddies on a secret chart.
So Renny followed the bouquet instead of the signs, laughing as she dashed under laundry lines and past a fiddler’s fast tune. The flowers led her straight to a boat with no name painted yet, where the captain grinned and raised the missing festival flag. Next time you notice the ribbon and those fern arrows, see if you can trace the river market path that made Renny hurry between fish bells.
