Two weeks into the apocalypse, Daphne burned her hometown to the ground. The town she’d grown up in. The town she’d built her life in. The town that she was supposed to die in. But for some reason, everyone else had died and left her behind.

She fingered the silver pendant that hung from a long chain around her neck. The sigil was a mystery, all looping metal that looked like some kind of Celtic symbol. Hopefully it would lead her to answers.

Daphne took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her whole world burning away. It mostly smelled like pine, as the small east-coast harbour town was built mostly from the deciduous trees that surrounded it on the back end. The rest was just ocean. Their little peninsula had been an oasis for the locals, one of the small communities supported by a nearby gold mine.

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, letting the heat of the flames wash over her face, cleanse her of her past that had been full of lies.

The world had gone to shit. Everyone was dead. Except for maybe one other person who could tell her why she wasn’t.

When people started to get sick, a few weeks back, it was reported on the news as a minor disease that presented itself as a light rash. Daphne had been in her small flower shop, watching a livestream on her phone, while working on an arrangement for a wedding two towns over.

She glanced up every now and again from behind white orchids, making sure that they hung in a graceful frame over the rainbow roses in the centre.

“And what are some precautions the public can take to avoid contracting this illness?” Allison Crick, an anchor for the news station in the city, asked from one side of the screen.

On the other side, live from somewhere in the United States, a man in a white lab coat adjusted his earpiece. “Same things they should be doing to avoid spreading any disease,” he replied, voice pert and condescending. “Wash your hands often, and if you’re showing symptoms, stay home. Hospitals are asking that you manage symptoms at home as much as possible, so just stay in and make yourselves comfortable. Cool compresses and ibuprofen help.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Thanks, that information is totally worth your pay grade,” she muttered, sliding a sprig of baby’s breath between two orchids.

The landline trilled its happy ring, and the florist turned to snatch it from the wall, cradling it between her cheek and shoulder as she continued to adjust the flowers.

“Little D’s,” she greeted brightly.

“Hey, pumpkin,” her father said, his voice a little hoarser than usual. “How’s yer day?”

The endearment made her smile. Even at twenty-eight years old, she was still pumpkin, and though she often scoffed at it, she secretly loved it.

“Oh, not too bad,” she replied. “Just working on the Winston order. What are you up to? Do you want to have lunch?”

“I think I’ll pass today,” he said, a hint of sadness in his usually jovial tone. “But I was hoping you had a few carnations kicking around that shop of yers that I could pop by and pick up. Yer mom’s not feeling well, I thought some of them pink ones might cheer her up.”

“-no actual treatment for this as of yet?” Allison’s tone was professionally concerned—that theatrical air a TV personality had to have.

Daphne frowned, thin lips pulling down at her prominent cheekbones. “Not feeling well? Is it another migraine?”

“Nah, I think it’s just a cold,” her father replied, and she could picture him waving his hand above his head as if to ward away negative thoughts. “But you always say the best flowers can cure what ails.”

She chuckled, eyes crinkling in the corners, and glanced over at the fridge. “And, as we know, I am always right.”

“Just like yer mother,” he replied, and they shared a hearty laugh.

She wandered over to the fridge, stretching the curly cord of her ancient phone as she slid open one of the sliding glass panels. Cool air welcomed her face, pleasantly washing over her creamy skin.

“Yeah, I’ve got a half-dozen of the light pink carnations,” she confirmed. “I’ll wrap ‘em up pretty for you.”

“-the CDC cautions against traveling-”

“Maybe I should get you to deliver them, in case she’s contagious,” he joked.

She rolled her eyes. “Just because I have a strong immune system, doesn’t mean I need to go exposing myself to every plague you guys come down with.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Thanks, pumpkin. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

“Bye, dad.” Daphne hung up the phone, turning back to her work.

“Where do you think the disease originated?”

The scientist gave the slightest scoff. “If we knew that, we’d have a lot easier time nailing down how to isolate it.”

Daphne reached over and clicked off her phone, silencing the pompous scientist. “What an asshole.” She focused on her project, working fluffy greens between the roses to fan them out behind like a peacock. The gentle swishswish of the ocean through the window was a much more relaxing backdrop than the news.

She put the Winston order into the fridge and pulled out the six carnations slated for her mother’s kitchen table.

As she wrapped them up and tied them with a golden ribbon, Daphne had no idea that her parents would barely outlive those flowers.