They say all pubs and taverns have a ghost about them. A friendly spirit of some bygone time, or perhaps the good cheer mixed with the sweat of the patrons over the years sunk into the wood of the stools, tables and chairs. It all broils into a steam that permeates the rafters, gives the very bones of the thing a character all it's own, a certain smell and quality of light that gives the place it's own... personality. But staring at an actual bouquet of flowers in a place like this? That was just downright odd. A bouquet in a bar. A deliberately arranged bouquet.