Chapter One His Precious Girl - Petals Beneath His Hands
By Hasnainhr
For seven days, Daisy Weber had managed the flower shop without her father.
She opened it before sunrise, carried the heavy buckets from the back room, trimmed the stems, changed the water, swept the fallen leaves, wrapped bouquets, and served every customer who entered through the green wooden door. From the street, everything appeared as it always had. The gold-painted sign still hung above the entrance. Roses and white lilies still filled the broad display window. The little brass bell still announced each customer with the same cheerful sound.
Only Daisy knew how different the flower house had become.
Her father had not descended the stairs in an entire week.
He remained in his bedroom on the upper floor, where the doctor’s medicines stood in brown glass bottles beside his bed. Daisy gave them to him at the proper hours, prepared warm soup, changed the damp cloth on his forehead, and sat beside him whenever the shop became quiet. Still, the fever did not leave him. Each day, his voice became weaker, his face paler, and his breathing more laboured.
The doctor had visited the previous evening. He had listened to Father’s chest, examined him for a long time, and then spoken to Daisy in the corridor with the bedroom door closed.
“You should remain near him tonight,” he had said.
Daisy had understood the meaning behind the careful words, but she had refused to accept it.
Her father had survived years of difficult winters, long working days, unpaid bills, her mother’s death, and the burden of raising a child alone. A fever could not take him from her. It simply could not.
That morning, Daisy had risen while the sky was still dark. She had entered Father’s bedroom and found him asleep, his breathing faint but steady. She had placed fresh water beside him, adjusted his blankets, and touched his forehead.
“I will be downstairs, Father,” she had whispered. “Call me when you wake.”
He had not answered.
Daisy had remained beside him for another moment before forcing herself to leave. The shop needed preparing, and she knew Father would be upset if she allowed his illness to ruin the business he had spent his life building.
Their flower shop occupied the entire ground floor of the old Weber house. Upstairs were their bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, and a cosy sitting room overlooking the narrow cobbled street. A wooden staircase behind the shop counter connected their work to their home. Daisy had grown up hearing customers below while she ate breakfast, hearing the telephone ring while she painted upstairs, and smelling roses and damp soil even inside her bedroom.
The house had always felt warm and full.
Now, even when customers crowded the shop, it felt painfully empty.
Daisy wore a modest blue dress beneath a cream cardigan, with her father’s brown work apron tied around her waist. The apron was too large, but she had begun wearing it after he became confined to bed. Its pockets carried pruning scissors, pieces of ribbon, and the small pencil she used for noting orders.
She stood before the display window, arranging white daisies around a tall vase of pale pink roses. Her dark chestnut hair had been gathered at the nape of her neck, though several loose strands had fallen around her face.
She stepped back and studied the arrangement.
The roses stood proudly above the simpler flowers, stealing all the attention.
Daisy frowned and moved two daisies nearer the front.
Her father had taught her never to allow expensive flowers to make ordinary ones disappear.
“A daisy does not need to become a rose to deserve sunlight,” he had once told her.
She could still hear his voice whenever she worked.
Daisy adjusted the final stem, then looked toward the staircase.
The upper floor remained silent.
She told herself that silence was good. Father was sleeping. Sleep would help the medicines work. Perhaps when she went upstairs, his fever would finally have fallen. Perhaps he would ask for breakfast. Perhaps tomorrow he would sit in the living room, and in another week he would come downstairs and complain that Daisy had placed the lilies too close to the window.
She clung to each possibility because the alternative was unbearable.
Daisy lifted a fresh bundle of lavender from the counter and began separating the stems. The shop smelled sweetly of roses, damp greenery, and the pine branches stored in the back room. Outside, the baker next door had begun opening his shutters. A bicycle passed over the cobbles, and somewhere beyond the street, the church bell marked eight o’clock.
Daisy placed the lavender beside a basket of yellow chrysanthemums.
Then she heard her father’s voice.
“Daisy!”
Her hands froze.
The call came from above, strained but loud enough to travel through the ceiling.
“Daisy!”
The lavender fell from her fingers.
“Father!”
She ran behind the counter, knocking her hip against the wooden edge without feeling the pain. Her shoes struck the staircase hard as she climbed, gathering her skirt in one hand so she would not trip.
“I am coming, Father!”
His voice called once more, but this time her name broke into a terrible cough.
Daisy reached the landing and rushed through the corridor. Father’s bedroom door stood partly open. She pushed it wide and stopped with her heart pounding.
Her father had dragged himself upright against the pillows. One hand gripped the blanket covering his chest, while the other reached toward the empty space beside the bed. His face was almost colourless, and every breath appeared to fight its way out of him.
Daisy hurried forward.
“Father, you should not have moved.”
She sat beside him and placed one arm behind his shoulders. His body felt unnaturally light as she helped him settle against the pillows.
“Daisy,” he whispered.
“I am here.”
His searching hand found hers.
Daisy clasped it tightly.
“I am here, Father. Please breathe slowly.”
She reached toward the medicine bottle, but his fingers closed weakly around her wrist.
“No more.”
“The doctor said you must take it.”
“It does nothing.”
“It may work today.”
Her father shook his head.
“I know my body, my precious girl.”
The tenderness in his voice frightened her more than the coughing.
Daisy picked up the glass of water instead. “Then drink a little.”
He took one small sip only because she asked him. When he turned his face away, Daisy placed the glass down and touched his forehead. His skin remained hot.
“I will telephone the doctor.”
“No.” Father tightened his hold on her hand. “Stay with me.”
“I will return immediately.”
“Please, Daisy.”
She looked into his eyes.
He had never begged her for anything.
Daisy slowly sat again.
The room seemed unnaturally still. Morning light entered through the curtains and fell across the familiar furniture: the wooden wardrobe, the chair where Father left his clothes, and the small framed photograph of Daisy’s mother on the bedside table.
Daisy followed his gaze toward the photograph.
Her mother, Elise Weber, smiled from inside the silver frame. She had been twenty-nine when the photograph was taken, with dark hair like Daisy’s and kind, luminous eyes.
Daisy had been seven years old when her mother died.
She remembered warm hands braiding her hair, a voice singing in the kitchen, lavender soap, and the feeling of falling asleep with her head in her mother’s lap. The remaining memories had faded around their edges over the years. Father had preserved everything else through his stories.
Her father looked at the photograph for a long moment.
“I loved your mother very much,” he said.
Daisy’s throat tightened. “I know.”
“No.” His voice remained faint, but his eyes grew distant with memory. “You were too young to understand how much.”
Daisy held his hand against her lap.
“She was the first person who made this house feel like a home,” Father continued. “Before her, it was only walls, furniture, and flowers downstairs. Your mother brought laughter into every room. She would sing while making breakfast, even though she could never remember the words correctly.”
Daisy smiled through the fear gathering inside her.
“You always said she had a beautiful voice.”
“I was in love. Love made me generous.”
A small laugh escaped Daisy, but it quickly became a sob.
Father’s fingers moved gently over hers.
“She was kind to everyone,” he said. “Too kind sometimes. She believed every person had goodness inside them, even those who had shown very little evidence of it.”
“You used to say I am like her.”
“You are.”
Daisy lowered her gaze.
Father studied her face with the same love he had shown her all her life.
“You have her eyes,” he said. “You have her gentle heart. When you were a little girl and found an injured bird in the garden, you remained awake the whole night because you believed it might become frightened if left alone. You cried when flowers wilted. You gave your winter scarf to a child at school and returned home shivering because you could not bear to see her cold.”
“You scolded me.”
“I bought you another scarf.”
“You still scolded me.”
“Because kindness without thought can place a person in danger.”
Daisy looked at him.
His expression had become serious.
“When your mother died, you were only seven,” Father said. “You stood beside her bed and asked me who would comb your hair in the mornings. Do you remember?”
Daisy nodded as tears filled her eyes.
“I remember you said you would learn.”
“I was terrible at it.”
“You pulled my hair.”
“You complained every morning.”
“Because it hurt.”
“I practised.”
Daisy smiled sadly. “Eventually.”
Father’s mouth softened.
“After your mother left us, I promised her that I would be both mother and father to you. I did not know how. I knew flowers and soil. I knew how to repair a roof, bargain with suppliers, and keep roses alive through winter. I did not know how to raise a little girl who missed her mother.”
“You raised me well.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You loved me.”
“I loved you more than I knew a person could love another.”
Daisy began crying openly.
Father lifted his hand with visible effort and placed it upon her head. His palm rested gently against her hair.
“My precious daughter,” he whispered. “My beloved girl.”
Daisy leaned toward him, pressing her face against his chest as carefully as she could.
“Please do not say goodbye.”
His hand moved slowly over her hair.
“I wish I did not have to.”
“You do not.” Daisy raised her head. “The doctor can return. Perhaps there is another medicine. We can go to Cologne. I will close the shop. I do not care about the shop.”
“Daisy—”
“I will take you anywhere. I will sell my paintings. I will sell everything.”
“My darling girl.”
“No.” She clutched his hand. “Do not speak to me as though this is the end.”
His eyes filled with pain—not from his illness, Daisy realised, but from watching her suffer.
“If love alone could keep a person alive,” he said, “your mother would still be downstairs arranging roses, and I would have many years left to irritate you.”
“You do not irritate me.”
“You told me yesterday that I did.”
“I did not mean it.”
“You meant it very sincerely.”
A broken laugh passed between them. Daisy quickly covered her mouth as another sob followed it.
Father stroked her hair.
“Listen to me, Daisy.”
She shook her head.
“Please.”
“I do not want your final words.”
“Then do not call them final words. Call them a father’s advice.”
“You can give me advice tomorrow.”
“I have given you advice every day for nineteen years. You have ignored most of it.”
“I will listen now. I will listen to everything, but you must stay.”
Father looked at her for a long moment, as though memorising every part of her face.
“My beautiful girl,” he said. “You must become strong.”
“I am not strong.”
“You are stronger than you know.”
“I cannot run the shop without you.”
“The shop is not what concerns me.”
Daisy frowned through her tears.
“What concerns you?”
“Your heart.”
Father placed his hand against her cheek.
“You see the world as your mother did. You expect honesty because you are honest. You expect gentleness because you are gentle. When people speak kindly, you believe kindness lives inside them.”
“Is that wrong?”
“No. Never believe that kindness is weakness. Never allow this world to make you cruel merely because cruel people exist.”
His thumb brushed away a tear.
“But you must become astute, Daisy.”
She listened silently.
“You must watch what people do, not merely what they say. Sweet words are easy. Promises cost nothing when a person does not intend to keep them.”
Daisy’s lips trembled.
Father continued, his voice growing weaker but more urgent.
“You are trusting. Sometimes too trusting. You forgive quickly because anger makes you uncomfortable. You blame yourself when others behave badly because you would rather change yourself than accept that someone you love may be unworthy of your love.”
“Father…”
“I have seen it even in small things. When customers speak sharply, you wonder what you did wrong. When someone disappoints you, you invent reasons to excuse them.”
“I only try to understand people.”
“That is a beautiful quality. Keep it. But understand yourself too.”
He rested his hand over her heart.
“Your feelings matter. Your discomfort matters. When something inside you says that a person is treating you wrongly, do not silence that voice simply because you fear losing them.”
Daisy bowed her head.
“I do not have anyone to lose after you.”
“You will.”
“I do not want anyone else.”
“You say that because grief is already standing at the door.”
“I only need you.”
Father’s eyes closed briefly. When they opened again, tears shone inside them.
“I know, my precious daughter. And leaving you is the hardest thing I have ever done.”
Daisy pressed his hand to her lips.
“Then do not leave.”
He took a difficult breath.
“One day, someone may enter your life and make you feel less alone. You may love him. Perhaps you will love him with this whole foolish, generous heart of yours.”
Daisy cried silently.
“Love him,” Father said. “Be kind to him. Be loyal. But remain Daisy.”
She looked at him.
“Do not give another person so much of yourself that nothing remains when he walks away. Do not mistake jealousy for devotion or control for protection. A man who loves you should not make your world smaller.”
His words settled heavily inside the room.
“If he asks you to abandon your dreams to prove your love, he does not love you properly. If he makes you afraid to disagree with him, that is not love. If he hurts you and then convinces you that your pain is your own fault, leave him.”
Daisy squeezed his hand.
“Why are you telling me these things?”
“Because I will not be here to stand between you and every person who might see your goodness and try to use it.”
“You have always protected me.”
“And now you must learn to protect yourself.”
“I do not know how.”
“Begin by believing that you are worth protecting.”
Daisy lowered her head and wept.
Father allowed her to cry. His hand moved slowly over her hair, the touch becoming weaker with every passing moment.
“You are not foolish because you trust,” he whispered. “The shame belongs to the person who betrays trust, never to the one who offered it honestly. But once someone shows you who they are, do not close your eyes because the truth is painful.”
Daisy nodded against his chest.
“Say that you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Look at me, my girl.”
She lifted her face.
“Remain kind,” Father said. “But be alert.”
“I will.”
“Remain soft-hearted, but not defenceless.”
“I will.”
“Be generous, but do not allow anyone to take what you have not freely chosen to give.”
Daisy swallowed a sob. “I promise.”
“Never believe that love gives another person ownership of you.”
“I promise.”
“Your life belongs to you.”
She pressed her forehead against his.
“My life will be empty without you.”
“It will feel empty for a time.”
“For how long?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“What will I do when I miss you?”
“Go downstairs and open the shop.”
Daisy shook her head.
“Arrange flowers,” he continued. “Paint beside the window. Walk in the garden. Cry when you must. Speak to me when the house becomes too quiet.”
“You will not answer.”
“Perhaps you will remember what I would have said.”
“You would tell me I used too much ribbon.”
“You always use too much ribbon.”
Daisy laughed through her tears.
“There is my girl,” Father whispered.
She tried to smile for him, but her face crumpled.
“I am frightened of being alone.”
Father lifted his hand and placed it on her head again.
“You will never be only alone. You will carry your mother’s kindness and my stubbornness wherever you go.”
“I have your stubbornness?”
“Far too much of it.”
“You said it was your greatest success.”
“It may also have shortened my life.”
Daisy gave another tearful laugh.
Father smiled faintly, pleased that he had managed to draw the sound from her.
Then his gaze drifted toward the corner of the room where one of Daisy’s paintings leaned against the wall. It showed a small white house surrounded by wildflowers beneath a golden sky.
“You must continue painting,” he said.
“I paint only for myself.”
“That is reason enough.”
“The shop will take all my time.”
“Then steal time back from it.”
“I am not a real artist.”
Father looked at her sharply despite his weakness.
“Do not insult my daughter in front of me.”
Daisy stared at him.
“You are an artist,” he said. “You have been one since the first day you dipped your fingers into paint and covered my account book with blue flowers.”
“I was five.”
“It was my finest account book.”
“You were angry.”
“I pretended to be angry. Your mother laughed for an hour.”
The memory brought tenderness to his face.
“Display your paintings beside the flowers,” he said. “Let people see what you create.”
“They may not like them.”
“They do not need to.”
“They may laugh.”
“Let them laugh. Small-minded people often laugh at things they cannot create.”
“What if nobody buys them?”
“Then the shop will still be more beautiful because they are there.”
Daisy nodded.
“I will display them.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
Father relaxed slightly against the pillow.
His breathing had become shallower.
Daisy noticed the change and immediately became frightened.
“Father?”
“I am tired.”
“Then sleep. I will remain here.”
He looked toward the photograph of Daisy’s mother.
“Your mother wore daisies in her hair on our wedding day.”
“You told me.”
“She refused roses because she said they were too proud.”
“That sounds like her.”
“It sounds like you.”
Daisy looked at the photograph.
“Will you see her?”
“I hope so.”
“What will you say?”
Father smiled faintly.
“I will tell her that our little girl became a remarkable young woman.”
“I am not remarkable.”
“To me, you have always been the most remarkable person in the world.”
Daisy began crying again.
“Tell Mother that I remember her song,” she said.
“I will.”
“Tell her that I tried not to forget her.”
“She knows.”
“And tell her that you kept your promise. You were both mother and father to me.”
Father’s eyes filled with tears.
“Was I enough?”
The question shattered something inside Daisy.
She took his face gently between her hands.
“You were everything.”
Her father closed his eyes as tears escaped from beneath them.
Daisy kissed his forehead.
“You never allowed me to feel that Mother’s death had left me unloved,” she whispered. “You combed my hair even when you did it badly. You learned to sew buttons. You sat outside my school when I was frightened. You worked all day and still listened to every foolish story I told at night. You were enough, Father. You were more than enough.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her with such love that Daisy could scarcely breathe.
“My beloved daughter,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
“I love you beyond this life.”
“Please do not go.”
His hand trembled as he touched her cheek.
“I am sorry.”
“No.”
“I wanted to see you become everything you dream of becoming.”
“You will.”
“I wanted to walk beside you on your wedding day.”
“You will.”
“I wanted to hold your children.”
“You will, Father. Please.”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Daisy climbed onto the bed beside him and wrapped her arms around his frail body. She rested her head beneath his chin as she had when she was a little girl. Father placed one arm around her with what little strength remained.
For several moments, they simply held each other.
Daisy listened to his heartbeat.
It was faint and uneven, but it was still there.
“Do you remember,” Father whispered, “when you were eight and tried to run away?”
“I went to the garden.”
“You packed three biscuits and a paintbrush.”
“I thought I might need it.”
“You returned after twenty minutes because it started raining.”
“You were waiting at the door.”
“I will be waiting again.”
Daisy lifted her head.
“Where?”
“Wherever people who love each other go when they can no longer remain here.”
Her tears fell onto his nightshirt.
“Promise?”
“Some promises are greater than words.”
His fingers moved weakly through her hair.
“My precious girl,” he murmured. “Do not let grief close your heart forever.”
“I cannot think about that now.”
“You do not have to. Only remember that the pain of losing love does not mean love was a mistake.”
Daisy held him more tightly.
“You were never a mistake.”
“Nor were you. You were the greatest gift your mother gave me.”
His breathing caught.
Daisy immediately sat upright.
“Father?”
He struggled for air.
She placed one hand behind his shoulders.
“Breathe slowly. Please. Look at me.”
His eyes found hers.
“Daisy…”
“I am here.”
“Always be… your own person.”
“I will.”
“Strong…”
“I promise.”
“Astute…”
“I promise.”
“But kind.”
“I will remain kind.”
His hand reached toward her, but it no longer had the strength to rise.
Daisy caught it and placed it against her cheek.
“That is my girl,” he whispered.
His eyes remained fixed upon her, filled with pride, grief, and immeasurable love.
“My precious Daisy.”
“I love you, Father.”
“And I…”
He tried to breathe again.
“…love you.”
His fingers moved once against her cheek.
Then his hand became heavy.
Father’s chest rose slowly and released one final, trembling breath.
The next breath did not come.
Daisy waited.
“Father?”
His eyes remained partly open, still turned toward her.
She touched his face.
“Father, breathe.”
Nothing happened.
“No.”
Daisy shook her head.
“You are only tired.”
She placed her hand against his chest, searching desperately for movement.
“Please breathe.”
The room remained silent.
“Father.”
Her voice rose into a frightened cry.
“You promised to wait for me. I am still here. You cannot go before me.”
She shook his shoulder gently at first, then harder.
“Father, please.”
His body did not respond.
Daisy pressed her ear against his chest.
There was no heartbeat.
A sound escaped her that did not resemble a word. She climbed fully onto the bed, wrapped both arms around him, and buried her face against his still chest.
“I will be strong,” she sobbed. “I will be astute. I will remain kind. I promise everything. Please open your eyes.”
Below them, the overturned lavender remained scattered across the shop floor. The white daisies waited in the display window, and the morning sun touched every flower Daisy had arranged before running upstairs.
The shop was ready to open.
The street outside had begun filling with life.
But inside the bedroom above the flowers, Daisy held the man who had been both mother and father to her and wept until she could no longer hear the world below.
For the first time in nineteen years, her father’s hand rested upon her hair without moving.