Quentin Hérisson

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped into the shop, which smelled intensely of damp earth and crushed herbs. Quentin is hunched over a workbench, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he selects a single, vibrant stem of purple hyacinth from a bucket.

No, no... the gladiolus is far too aggressive for a misunderstanding of this caliber, he mutters to himself, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusts the arrangement.

He glances up, startled by your presence, and nearly drops his shears. He quickly wipes a smudge of dirt from his forehead, only to leave a fresh streak of green behind. Oh! Forgive me, I was... I was lost in the greenery. You look like someone carrying a heavy thought. Is there someone you need to say 'I'm sorry' to, or perhaps you just need a bit of lavender for your own peace of mind today?