3:00 a.m. | Part One: Iris
A fictional short story.
I’ve never felt anything more immediately satisfying then having a cigarette once the dinner rush is over and the only thing left between me and sweet escape is a bit of cleaning.
My brain, as usual, starts wandering. Why does this feel so good? Is it the nicotine, or just the relief after hours of noise? I overthink everything. It’s who I am, but sometimes I wonder if all these circling thoughts do anything except make life feel heavier than it needs to be.
The back door bangs open.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!” I gasp in response.
“Oh, here you are,” my manager Jane says, breathless. “You rattle way too easily, Iris. You’ve got bev station, plates on the line, and cut some lemons for the morning crew before you go, okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, please don’t worry about my heart or anything. Thanks for asking,” I laugh. “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish. Scout’s honor.” I take another drag.
“Good. I still can’t believe you smoke those things. At least vape or something, get with the times and all that,” she says, regarding me with a mothering gaze.
“Oh, right. Like ‘with the times’ is a phrase anyone would use to describe me,” I return. “What’s wrong with a little nostalgia?”
“You need direction, girl. Real direction. Before things pass you by.” The words land heavier than they should as she walks back inside.
I take one last puff as a gust of wind rustles through the alley. I suddenly feel like I’m not alone. The air turns colder against the back of my neck. It doesn’t feel like the usual night chill. There’s something thinner, sharper, in the air. I freeze with the cigarette halfway to my mouth. Behind me, something soft scrapes against the concrete, like fabric or petals.
I turn. The alley is empty, save the dumpster and a flickering security light.
I almost brush it off, but the scrape happens again, closer this time. I feel the faintest brush against my left ankle, cool and damp like a wet leaf. When I look down, a single purple petal sits on the cracked pavement near my shoe. I didn’t notice it before. It looks fresh. Too fresh for an alley behind a restaurant after midnight.
I bend down slowly and pick it up. It’s cold. The edges are already wilting, but the center pulses with deep violet color. A sickly-sweet scent rises from it, growing stronger until I’m choking on it. A second gust of wind hits, and the petal slips from my hand, spinning once before vanishing into the dark. I cough as my breath returns to normal, the strange scent gone.
I put out my cigarette harder than necessary and head back inside, the hairs on my neck still standing.
“Hey, Austin said he wants to hang out with us after work!” Kaity excitedly rattles off the moment she sees me. “So, hurry the fuck up so we can get out of here. You know I’ve been dying to go out and let loose and…don’t-you-give-me-that-face-you-are-going-whether-you-want-to-or-not,” she says, in what sounds like one breath.
She’s already planning my night for me. Again. She has it in her head that Austin—the new bartender who maybe is tall and easy to talk to and has a great smile—and I would be perfect for each other. She’s been relentlessly trying to get us together no matter how many times I’ve told her I’m not interested in seeing someone right now. That I’m focused on work and making money so I can do some traveling this summer. And how the fact that I’m still somewhat heart-broken over my recent break-up and maybe not entirely over my ex, is not a factor into my reluctance to “get back out there.” It’s called inner self-work, I tell her.
None of it matters. She still insists on being obnoxiously stubborn. And though I give her the face, I don’t fight as hard as usual.
“I think I’ve actually reached a point where I’m too tired to argue with you,” I sigh. “I’ll go. You’re right, Kaity. We need a night out to clear our heads.” I smile at her.
“Thank Jesus, there she is! Or at least someone that finally reminds me of my best friend!” Kaity exclaims.
I roll my eyes as I walk past her. “Why must everything be on your time? People deal with things in different ways, you know.”
“Oh, Iris, please. He was full of himself and not very nice in the end. You will always deserve better than that. And I simply refuse to spend any more time watching you mourn a loser.” Kaity could have a temper, but it is almost always used with love.
“Ouch, I get it. Didn’t I already agree to go? Can I work now please?” I ask her in my best I-hear-you-best-friend-now-shut-up voice.
“We leave out of here AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!” she happily exclaims while heading to the dining area. Her authoritative, bubbly nature sometimes makes me want to stab her.
I laugh under my breath, trying to shake off the cold tingle clinging to the back of my neck from the alley. Wind, imagination, or a stupid petal, whatever that had been, it didn’t matter. I made my move for the beverage station. I had work to finish.
“Ah, my favorite people,” I exhale as I walk out into the cool night air toward the small group standing in the parking lot.
“Iris!” Oliver calls. “You took forever. What did you do, deep clean every station?”
Willow links her arm through mine. “Ignore him. Please tell me you have a lighter. Somehow none of us have a working one. Again.”
I hand her mine and laugh, but something feels slightly off. The streetlight across the road flickers once, twice, and then steadies. For a second I think I see a shape standing underneath it, but when I blink, it’s gone.
“Iris to the rescue, as always.” Austin flashes that easy smile at me. “How do you do it?”
“Luck. Spiritual fortitude. Cat-like reflexes,” I say, miming a karate move in his direction. I expect him to move out of the way of my hands. He doesn’t.
“I’m free! FINALLY. Let’s get out of here!” Kaity yells as she comes running out of the restaurant and straight into Oliver’s arms.
The group laughs, and just like that, the night shifts into motion. Someone suggests heading to Laurel’s place. He’s off tonight and has the biggest backyard. A few more quick smokes, some half-hearted complaints about work, and we’re piling into cars.
As we pull away from the restaurant, I glance back once through the rear window. The alley looks ordinary again under the streetlights. There are no petals or strange shapes. I tell myself the chill on my neck is just leftover adrenaline.
But the feeling follows me anyway.
“Isn’t this great? Laurel shouts over the music as he welcomes us in.
The party is already overwhelming. I’d pictured something chill, with music low enough to talk and a few drinking games. Instead, Laurel’s house is packed wall-to-wall. The bass rattles my ribs. Bodies press and surge around us, red Solo cups sloshing.
“It’s a lot louder in here than I thought it’d be,” Austin yells into my ear, his breath warm against the side of my face.
I nod, forcing a smile. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel. Kaity, on the other hand, lights up like she just won the lottery and immediately pulls Willow and Hazel toward the makeshift dance floor in the living room. Oliver and Laurel disappear into the crowd behind them.
I glance at Austin. “Let’s see if we can at least find ourselves something to drink. Follow me.” I lead him to the kitchen where the noise is slightly more bearable.
“Thanks. I was not expecting this big of a party when you guys invited me out tonight. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great…just a lot for a Tuesday,” Austin laughs.
I laugh too. “Yeah, that’s Laurel for you—impulsive, go-big-or-go-home type of energy. It can be fun, but it’s not always the best energy for cleaning up…or being reliable. I end up covering a lot of shifts and helping the new people settle in. Someone has to keep things from falling apart, right?”
“You know,” he says, twisting the beer bottle in his hands, “you always seem to be the one taking care of everyone at work. Who takes care of you?”
The question lands softly, but it hits. I laugh it off, my cheeks warm.
“Probably no one,” I admit. “I’m not great at letting people do that.”
He smiles, not the big charming one, but something smaller and more real. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
We talk easily for a while. Austin is easy to be around. When he laughs at something I say, I catch myself noticing the way his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners. I look away quickly.
He listens like he actually cares about the answer. When I mention wanting to travel, he asks follow-up questions instead of just nodding. His elbow brushes mine on the counter and stays there a second longer than it needs to. My stomach does a small, traitorous flip.
For a moment I let myself imagine what it would be like: his hand on my back, that smile directed at me in a quieter room. It’s dangerously easy to picture. But every time the thought lingers too long, my ex’s face flashes in my mind, and the familiar ache pulls me back down.
Suddenly, a faint sickly-sweet scent drifts past me. I glance around the kitchen, but there are no flowers, no air fresheners, nothing that should smell like that. I ignore it. But it keeps returning, stronger each time, until it’s the same overwhelming rotten-floral smell from the alley. Goosebumps raise on my skin.
“I think I’m going to head out,” I say suddenly, standing up. I need to get out of there. “This really isn’t my night.”
Austin looks concerned, but doesn’t push. “Want me to walk you?”
I shake my head. “It’s only two blocks. I do it all the time. I’ll be fine.” I take a deep breath to steady myself and offer him a smile. “Go find the others and have fun. You did great today, you deserve it.”
He hesitates, but eventually nods. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I promise I will and slip out into the night. The air feels heavier the moment the door closes behind me.
The streets are quieter than they should be for this time of night. Time of morning? My footsteps echo too loudly on the sidewalk. The sickly-sweet scent is gone, but the memory of it clings to the back of my throat. Every shadow seems deeper than usual. Every alley feels like it’s watching me, a dark open mouth waiting to bite.
I pull my jacket tighter around myself. Two blocks, I remind myself. Just two blocks and I can crawl into bed and forget this whole night.
But as I turn the corner onto my usual route home, something feels wrong. The street is the same one I’ve walked a hundred times after late shifts with its cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlamps, and the familiar row of closed shops. Except tonight, there’s a new one.
Nestled between a boarded-up laundromat and an old bookstore is a small storefront I’ve never noticed before. Soft golden light spills from the large front window, warm and inviting in the cool night. A hand-painted sign above the door simply reads “The Flower Shop” in faded, curling letters. In the window, dozens of flowers and plants are arranged in lush, overflowing displays, their petals glowing faintly under the lights.
An “Open” sign hangs in the door, swaying gently even though there’s no breeze. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, staring. How have I never seen this place? I walk this route all the time. It feels…impossible.
The scent returns, faint at first, then stronger. That same sickly-sweet floral smell from the alley, from the party. It should repulse me. Instead, it pulls at something deep in my chest.
My feet move before my brain catches up. I step closer to the window. Inside, the shop looks larger than it should be, vines creeping along the walls and flowers turning slowly as I approach, as if they’re listening.
I hesitate, hand hovering inches from the door handle.
This is crazy. It’s late. I should go home.
The sickly-sweet scent wraps around me again, thicker now, pulling like invisible fingers. The pull is stronger than the fear.
I push the door open.
The bell dings as the door swings shut behind me. Immediately, the thick, sweet, and cloying scent that has haunted me all evening fills the air, like overripe flowers left too long in water.
“Hello? Is there anybody in here? Do you know your store sign says open?” I call out, my voice sounding small in the vast space.
The flower shop is unlike anything I have ever seen. The modest storefront outside gave no hint of this. The room stretches impossibly deep, as if the walls themselves bend away from reality. Dim golden light filters through a canopy of hanging vines and broad leaves, casting shifting, living shadows across wooden tables and overflowing shelves.
Flowers bloom in impossible colors and combinations: deep velvety purples, ghostly whites, and vivid crimsons that seem to pulse with their own faint heartbeat. Some petals slowly turn toward me as I move, tracking my presence like curious eyes. Vines creep along the walls and ceiling like slow, breathing veins. The air is warm, humid, and heavy with soil, nectar, and something darker underneath.
In the center of the room, four funeral arrangements rest on a long wrought-iron table.
The first is a circle of wilted roses, their petals bruised and drooping, but the thorns still viciously sharp. A small card in elegant script reads: The One Who’s Fine.
A soft voice speaks from behind me, startling me. “That one is heavy, isn’t it?”
I turn. An older woman with silver-streaked hair and piercing eyes stands near a curtain of ivy. She doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“You keep telling everyone you’re okay,” she says gently. “Even when you’re not. Even when you need help. There is no weakness in needing others. We are all connected. The point of this life is to walk each other home.”
As she speaks, flashes hit me: smiling at Jane after she scared me, telling Kaity I’m fine when exhaustion weighs on me like stones, walking home alone at 3 a.m. pretending I don’t need anyone. The loneliness of it crashes over me.
Before I can respond, she gestures to the second arrangement: bright, cheerful flowers that look perfect from a distance. Up close, I see they are plastic—stiff, artificial, and hollow. Its card reads: The People Pleaser.
“You give so much love to others,” the woman continues. “You pour yourself out for them. But you forget yourself, Iris. You are worthy of that same love. It’s beautiful to love others deeply, but you must learn to give it to yourself first. Balance is also love.”
Another wave washes over me. I see myself covering extra shifts for Laurel, listening to my sister for hours while my own needs sit neglected, staying with my ex long after he stopped choosing me. The hollowness feels suffocating.
“Who are you? How do you know my name?” I manage to ask, my body frozen in place.
The woman doesn’t answer. She simply gestures to the next arrangement.
The third bouquet is chaotic beauty: a dense tangle of green vines and leaves shaped like a hunched figure, chin resting on one leafy fist, lost in endless contemplation. The vines twist and knot so tightly they look painful, like thoughts that have become chains. The title card reads: The Overthinker.
“You live so much in your head,” she says, almost sadly. “Planning. Worrying. Analyzing every moment until it loses all life. You forget the beauty of simply being here, fully alive. The present moment is all we truly have. Attention is love.”
I see myself replaying every fight with my ex, overanalyzing Austin’s smile, worrying about a future that hasn’t happened yet instead of living in the present. The vines feel like they’re wrapping around my own neck, squeezing tighter.
I’m trembling now. My chest feels tight. Tears burn at the corner of my eyes.
The woman steps closer to the final arrangement. It is the most beautiful and the most horrifying. A mirror is woven into the center, surrounded by flowers that look alive but are clearly rotting from within. Framed by browning petals and blackening stems, my own reflection stares back at me: pale and hollow-eyed. Already half-dead. The Living Corpse.
“And this one,” she says quietly, “is what waits if you refuse to let the others go. You will remain stuck. Emotionally dead. Comfortable in your suffering, until there is nothing left of you at all.”
She looks at me with deep, unflinching compassion. “But there is another way.”
Author’s Note
This is only the second fully fictional short story I’ve ever written (and the first one I’ve actually published).
I’ve spent a lot of time over the years in the 3 a.m. headspace that this story comes from. It’s a strange mix of peace, exhaustion, overthinking, and the feeling that the world gets a little thinner after midnight. I always liked that. Still, writing it was equal parts terrifying and exciting, as it goes whenever I try something new.
I’d love to hear what you think. Any favorite moments? Did Part One’s ending land for you?
3:00 a.m. Part Two will be up next week. Stay tuned.
Thank you for reading.
Until next time,
JGW
The opening pulled me in 👍
Love it! I am looking forward to more!