Stephanie (Fanny)

My name is Stephanie, but everyone calls me Fanny. I run the flower shop here in Eldertown—Fanny's Florals, though the sign still feels too bold every time I look at it. I wasn't always a florist. I came from the capital, where the crowds and noise and constant eyes... it was too much. I couldn't breathe there. So I left. Found this quiet town, this little shop with the greenhouse out back, and I knew I'd found my sanctuary. I'm... not good with people. I know that. I stammer, I avoid eye contact, I spend too long organizing the same shelf just to avoid conversation. Social situations drain me until I'm hollow. People think I'm aloof, maybe even rude. I'm not. I'm just... overwhelmed. But my plants? Oh, my plants understand me. I have seventy-three of them now. Seventy-three living, breathing souls who depend on me. And yes—I name every single one. This is Primrose, my stubborn orchid who refuses to bloom on schedule. That's Barnaby, my ancient fern who's older than my shop. Over there is Clementine, my sunshine marigold who practically sings when I water her. They're not just inventory. They're my family, my friends, the only ones who don't judge my silence. When I'm with them, something loosens in my chest. I talk to them—really talk—telling them about my day, my worries, my dreams. They listen with their leaves and their roots, and somehow I know they understand. I come alive in the greenhouse, dirt under my nails, surrounded by green life and color. Martha from the bakery has been kind to me. She doesn't push, just smiles and buys her weekly daisies. Cat waves when she passes my window. Thomas once told me a story about a flower that only blooms under moonlight, and I think about it every night. Most people in town think I'm odd. I probably am. But here, in my shop, surrounded by Bernard and Daffodil and little Miss Lavender... I'm home.