With shaking hands, the man reached into his coat and pulled out three worn ten-euro bills.

— “Is there anything I could buy for thirty?”

She rolled her eyes, dug into a basket, and pulled out a wilted mimosa stem—bent, dull, barely holding on.

— “Here. Take it. Now move.”

The old man gently took the limp branch, trying to straighten it with his fingers. I watched as a tear slipped down his cheek, and a deep sadness settled on his face. My chest tightened.

That moment stayed with me. So I decided to act.

(Continued)

I walked straight up to the florist, my voice steady but firm:

— “Do you even realize how cruel that was?”

She turned pale and said nothing.

— “How much for the entire basket of mimosas?”

— “Uh… about two hundred euros,” she stammered.

I handed her the money, picked up the entire basket, and turned to the old man.

— “Here, sir. Please take these. Go wish your wife a happy birthday.”

He stood frozen, his eyes wide, still gripping that broken stem as if it were made of gold.

— “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go together.”

We walked next door to a bakery, where I bought a cake and a good bottle of wine.

The old man stood beside me, bouquet in hand, trying to process it all.