The Roses That Overslept

Fleur reached the flower market at four in the morning. The street was dark and cold. Only the lamps over the stalls glowed.

Her stall was the last one in the row. Ismael sat on a crate by the counter. He held a small box.

"You are late," he said.

"It is four o'clock," said Fleur. "Nobody is late at four."

"Look at this." Ismael opened the box. Inside lay a folded paper. "I found it under the counter."

Fleur unfolded the paper. It was a recipe, written in pencil. The top said, "Wake-Up Water for Sleepy Flowers." The letters were small and soft. In some places the pencil was almost gone.

"Sleepy flowers?" She laughed. "Who writes a thing like that?"

"Someone who knew this stall," said Ismael. "Come and see the buckets."

Fleur turned around. Fifty buckets of roses stood in the dark. Every rose was shut tight. They looked like little fists.

"Oh no," she said. "The hotel van comes at six."

"What do they want?" asked Ismael.

"Three hundred open roses for their tables. My mother promised them last week."

Ismael looked up at the black sky. "The sun comes up at seven."

"Then we need help." Fleur looked at the paper again. "Or we try this."

Ismael shrugged. "Why not? The roses cannot get any sleepier."

She read the list out loud. "One cup of warm water. Two spoons of honey. A handful of mint."

"We have honey," said Ismael. "The mint seller is next door."

"There is a pinch of something too. The word is gone." Fleur held the paper under the lamp. "A white stain covers it."

"White powder," said Ismael. "It must be salt."

"Or sugar."

"Sugar and honey are both sweet. It must be salt."

"Salt, then." Fleur read the last line. "Hum one slow song. Pour. Wait."

Ismael ran to the next stall. The mint seller looked up from his chair. He did not look surprised. Ismael asked for a big handful of mint.

"What for?" asked the man.

"For sleepy roses," said Ismael.

The man did not laugh. He gave Ismael two handfuls. "Take extra," he said. "It is early."

Back at the stall, Fleur lit the small stove. She warmed the water in a pot. She added the honey, the mint and one pinch of salt. The smell was sweet and strange.

Then she hummed a slow song. It was a soft song her mother sang. Ismael poured the water over every bucket.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a sound came from the nearest bucket. It was low and slow, like a tiny breath. Then it came again.

"Ismael," whispered Fleur. "Are they snoring?"

Ismael leaned closer. The sound came from all the buckets now. Fifty buckets of roses snored together. The heads of the flowers dropped even lower.

"We made it worse," he said. "We sang them a lullaby!"

"The paper said a slow song!"

"The paper also forgot a word!" Ismael checked his phone. "It is five o'clock. We have one hour."

Fleur sat down on the crate. She put her face in her hands. The roses snored in the quiet.

"My mother will lose the hotel," she said. "They will buy their flowers somewhere else."

Ismael did not answer at first. He stood and looked at the pot. Steam rose from the warm water. It smelled of mint and honey.

"At my house, an alarm clock never works," he said. "Nobody gets up for it."

"So?"

"We get up when we smell breakfast." He grinned. "Nothing wakes my family faster."

Fleur looked up. "You want to give the roses breakfast."

"Everything else failed. Why not?"

They worked fast. They threw away the salty water. Ismael made a new pot with only honey and mint. They poured it into a wide pan. They put it between the buckets. Fleur waved her hat over the steam. The sweet smell drifted over the roses.

"Now we need a fast song," said Ismael. "A happy one."

"Not a lullaby?"

"Never again."

Ismael sang the silly song from his school football games. Fleur clapped the beat. The song was loud and bad. But it was certainly a morning song.

At first nothing happened. Then one rose near the front gave a small shake. Its petals opened a little. They moved like someone stretching in bed.

"Look!" said Fleur.

Another rose opened. Then another. Soon the whole row stirred. Petals opened with soft sounds, like paper. The roses leaned toward the warm pan. Some of them glowed a little, pink in the lamplight.

By half past five, the first buckets were open. At a quarter to six, three hundred roses were open and perfect. The market smelled like a garden. Even the mint seller clapped from his chair.

The hotel van stopped at six. A tall woman climbed out with a list. She walked down the row and touched the flowers.

"These are beautiful," she said. "They look so awake."

"Thank you," said Fleur. "They had breakfast."

The woman smiled as if it was a joke. She paid, and two men loaded the buckets into the van. Then the van drove away down the empty street.

Fleur took the recipe from her pocket. The first sun now lit the stall. She held the paper up to the light. At the bottom, new pencil letters showed in the light.

"Listen to this," she said. "P.S. A loud friend works better than salt."

Ismael took a deep bow. "I am the loud friend."

"You are," said Fleur. "And I owe you for the morning."

"Then I want my pay. Two big spoons of honey."

"One spoon," said Fleur. "Your singing was terrible."

"But it worked," said Ismael. "Roses love breakfast."