The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 175

The French lady's name was Madeleine. She was sixty-eight years old, a retired art history professor from a prestigious Parisian academy.

Twenty-five years ago, when Annelise's mother, a young woman named Willow Sargent, opened the tiny 'Sargent Floral' beneath Madeleine's apartment, the two had quickly become close friends.

"The flowers your mother made were entirely unique in Paris at the time," Madeleine told Annelise.

They were sitting at an outdoor café by the Seine, sipping coffee and reminiscing about the past.

The autumn sunlight filtered through the sparse leaves of the plane trees, casting a beautifully dappled pattern across the white tablecloth between them.

"Back then, the trend in Paris was heavy, extravagant, royal-style arrangements."

Madeleine gestured gracefully in the air with her fingers.

"But your mother was different."

"Her work had an abundance of breathing room; it carried a very specific, peaceful Oriental Zen. She always said she wasn't trying to copy nature, but to have a conversation with it."

Madeleine's words acted like a key, instantly unlocking a door deep within Annelise's heart.

She finally understood where her innate sensitivity to clean lines and spatial balance came from.

It wasn't merely talent.

It was the most precious inheritance flowing through her veins, a direct gift from her mother.

After finishing their coffee, Madeleine took Annelise to the 7th arrondissement of Paris.

They walked down the exact street where her mother had once run her flower shop.

It was a wonderfully quiet, quintessential Parisian side street.

Lined with aged stone buildings, the walls were heavily draped in creeping ivy.

The storefront her mother used was still there.

Only, the wooden sign bearing the name 'Sargent Floral' was long gone.

The space had been transformed into a charming bakery, radiating the rich, comforting scent of butter.

The only thing that hadn't changed was the massive wisteria tree right outside the door.

"Your mother planted this tree with her own hands," Madeleine said, pointing at the thick, gnarled branches of the wisteria.

The leaves were already turning yellow in the autumn breeze, drifting slowly to the ground one by one.

But anyone could easily imagine how utterly magnificent it must look in the spring, dripping with cascades of vibrant purple blooms.

Standing beneath the wisteria tree, Annelise reached out and gently rested her hand against its rough, time-worn bark.

She stood there for a very, very long time.

Madeleine then told Annelise a truth she had never known.

"When your mother suddenly closed the shop to return to your hometown, it wasn't just to get married."

Madeleine's tone grew heavy.

"It was because your grandfather had fallen desperately ill. She had to rush back immediately to care for him."

Annelise's heart violently seized at this revelation, twenty-five years delayed.

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