In the quaint little town of Gloomstead, where fog clung to cobblestone streets like a ghostly shawl, Valentine Tremayne owned a flower shop. Valentine was tall, perpetually awkward, and entirely too obsessed with botany. He spent most of his days hybridizing roses in the backroom, muttering to himself about pH levels and pollination. Despite his quirks, he had a loyal following of customers who appreciated his artistry—though none appreciated him quite like Beatrice Hallow.

Beatrice, the town’s mortician, had an unconventional beauty. Her raven-black hair was always impeccably styled, her lips perpetually stained in hues of deep plum, and her sense of humor was as sharp as her scalpel. She frequented Valentine’s shop, always buying bouquets for her “clients.”

“Dead people deserve beauty too,” she’d say with a wink. Valentine would chuckle nervously and pretend not to swoon.

One dreary October evening, as the fog swallowed the town whole, Beatrice arrived with an unusual request.

“Valentine,” she said, her voice as silky as the midnight wind, “do you have...