The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 199

"You're afraid that they won't understand this building."

The old man's grip on his wooden cane tightened slightly.

"A coffee franchise would paint over your grandfather's wooden panels with their corporate colors," Annelise continued. "A luxury brand would smash these arched windows to install floor-to-ceiling glass."

"They have the money. But all they see is foot traffic. They don't see the building."

Eriksen lifted his eyes, looking at her directly for the first time.

"And you? What do you see?"

Annelise walked over to the arched wooden window, gently touching the weathered paint on the frame.

"I see this window."

"At nine o'clock in the morning, the light will hit from this exact angle. If I place a row of white ranunculus right here, that light will trace a golden halo around their petals."

"You don't get that kind of light in a new building. You only get it in your grandfather's building."

The old man remained silent for a long time.

Then, slowly, he let out a heavy sigh.

"Young lady, you speak very well," he said, leaning on his cane and turning to leave. "But light speaking to flowers doesn't mean you can pay the rent, and it doesn't mean you can handle the preservation of this property."

"I need to see a proposal. A formal, professional plan that proves I can trust you."

"You have two weeks."

Stepping out of the old bookstore, the afternoon sun in Oslo was blindingly bright.

Sophia stomped her foot in frustration. "That old man is impossible! We've been featured in the press dozens of times, and that's not enough credentials?"

"He doesn't care about fame," Annelise said, looking up at the cream-colored historic building, her expression calm. "He wants someone who can prove that if they take over this space, they won't ruin it."

"But we're just a flower shop," Emma groaned, rubbing her temples. "We don't have the means to produce a formal commercial architectural renovation plan. Hiring a professional architecture firm would take way too much time and money."

The three of them stood on the street corner, completely out of options.

That evening, as Annelise returned to her apartment building, she ran into Yves in the foyer. He had just gotten back, brushing a few flakes of evening snow off his shoulders, carrying his architectural blueprint tube.

"You don't look great," he noted, glancing at her. "Did the Carp rip you off again?"

"No," Annelise managed a tired smile. "We found a new location for the studio, but the landlord won't budge."

"Wants too much money?"

"Thinks we aren't qualified," Annelise gave him a brief rundown of the day's events. "He wants a formal architectural renovation plan to prove we won't destroy the integrity of the building if we take over."

"Which building?"

"The old bookstore on the corner in Old Town. The Eriksen property."

Yves stopped in his tracks.

"I know that building," he said. "It's an 1890s brick-and-timber structure. The skylight on the second floor was a later addition, but it was executed brilliantly."

Annelise looked at him in surprise. "You know the building?"

Yves held his blueprint tube, his expression completely unreadable.

"It's on the way," he said simply. "I was looking for a space in Old Town anyway. You have the need, I have the expertise. It's mutually beneficial."

He paused, then added a rare follow-up sentence.

"Besides, that building deserves to be treated well. And you're someone who will treat it well."

With that, he turned and headed up the stairs, disappearing around the corner.

Annelise stood there for a moment before a soft smile finally broke across her face.

This man never said, "I want to help you."

He only said things like "on the way" and "deserves it."

Stripping away every ounce of obligation from his kindness so she wouldn't feel the slightest burden of owing him.

The next day, she filled two full pages with her zoning requirements and placed them on the very first step of the staircase leading to the third floor.

The exact spot where he would see them the second he looked down on his way out.

No sticky note.

She knew he would understand.

That night, the drafting lamp in the third-floor apartment stayed lit until dawn.