My Husband Bought Me Flowers To Celebrate My Promotion. A Homeless Woman Just Warned Me That Smelling Them Will Kill Me. Should I Trust My Husband Of Five Years Or A Stranger?

Eleanor Vance walked down the hallway of the downtown Chicago office feeling as if her feet were barely touching the ground. Her heart was pounding with happiness and her face wore a smile that her colleagues noticed immediately, answering with smiles of their own.

She had just left the director’s office where Mr. Peterson had shaken her hand and spoken the words she had been waiting three years to hear.

“Congratulations, Eleanor. As of October 1st, you’ll be the new head of the marketing department.”

Three years of hard work, of sleepless nights spent on projects, of presentations where she proved her competence time and time again. Three years during which others took credit for her ideas, interrupting her in meetings when it seemed she could never break through that invisible ceiling. And now she had done it.

Colleagues congratulated her as she passed. Brenda from accounting hugged her so tightly Eleanor was almost left breathless. Dave from IT gave her a wink and a thumbs up.

Even Dolores, the perpetually disgruntled office manager, nodded with something that resembled approval.

“Well done,” she grunted. “You’ve earned it.”

Eleanor glanced at the clock; it was 4:30 p.m. She normally never left before 7, but today Mr. Peterson had let her go early.

“Go on, celebrate. Days like this don’t happen every year.”

She gathered her things, stowing the folders she had planned to study at home into her purse, though she understood perfectly well she would hardly get to them today. Today she just wanted to be happy, to call her mother, to tell her husband Michael. Maybe open that bottle of champagne that had been in the fridge since last New Year’s.

It was warm outside. The end of September had turned out to be unusually mild, almost summery. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, promising a warm city evening.

Eleanor took off her light trench coat and draped it over her arm. She wanted to take a deep breath, to feel the air fill her lungs, to feel how life was finally turning its right side to her.

She decided to walk. It was only 20 minutes, but today the walk felt like a gift. Cars sped by, people hurried about their business, but Eleanor seemed to float in her own bubble of happiness.

The phone in her purse vibrated. A text from her mom: “How are you, sweetie?” Eleanor smiled. She would definitely tell her tonight.

The City Fresh Market on the corner was the same as always: bright sign, automatic doors, a display of sale items at the entrance. Eleanor was about to walk past when she heard a loud male voice.

“I told you to get lost! This isn’t a soup kitchen.”

She turned around. At the supermarket entrance, a burly security guard in a uniform jacket was roughly shoving a woman holding a baby out onto the street. The woman stumbled on the threshold, barely managing to hold on to the child.

The guard pushed her again, harder.

“Out! How many times? Same thing every day.”

The woman didn’t scream, didn’t resist. She just clutched the baby to her chest and took a few steps back. The infant was wrapped in some old jacket, its face pale, almost gray. The baby wasn’t crying, and that was more terrible than any scream.

Eleanor froze. Passersby went around the scene, some turning their heads, others quickening their pace. Someone shook their head, someone else frowned, but no one stopped.

The guard went back into the supermarket, the door slamming behind him. The woman remained standing by the wall, carefully rocking the child. Eleanor approached her.

The woman was young, maybe 25 at most. Dark eyes, long dark hair in a braid, old but not dirty clothes, and worn-out sneakers on her feet. She wasn’t holding out her hand, not asking for anything. She just stood there staring at some point beyond Eleanor, gently rocking the baby.

“Can I help?” Eleanor heard her own voice as if from a distance.

The woman slowly turned her gaze to her, emotionless, as if weighing whether it was worth answering.

“Water,” she said quietly. “The baby needs water.”

Her voice was calm, tired, without drama or pleading. Just a statement of fact.

Eleanor nodded and quickly went into the supermarket. The guard followed her with a hostile stare but said nothing. She grabbed a bottle of nursery water, formula, a package of crackers, boxed and jarred baby food, and bananas.

At the checkout, the cashier scanned the items mechanically without looking at her.

“$85.60.”

Eleanor swiped her card, took the bag, and went outside. The woman was still standing in the same spot. Eleanor walked up and held out the groceries.

“Here. For the baby.”

Then Eleanor opened her purse, took out her wallet, and pulled out a crisp $100 bill. She held it out to the young woman. The woman looked at the bag, took the bill, then looked at Eleanor. A long, heavy stare.

Then she said softly, “Thank you. Not many people stop.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to say something routine like “You’re welcome” or “It’ll be okay.” But the woman suddenly took a step closer. Her gaze became sharp, penetrating. She stared intently at Eleanor’s face as if reading something invisible.

“Wait,” the woman said. “Don’t go yet.”

Eleanor stood still. Something in this stranger’s voice made her stay. Something unsettling, almost hypnotic.

The woman adjusted the baby in her arms. She looked at Eleanor again.

“You were kind to me. Few people stop. But I have to tell you something.” She paused. “My name is Cassie. I see things. Not always, but sometimes clearly. And I see something now.”

Eleanor wanted to smile, to say she was in a hurry, that she had to go, but the words got stuck in her throat. Cassie was looking at her so seriously, so intently, that a smile would have felt like an insult.

“Your husband is going to bring you flowers tonight,” Cassie said in a flat, almost indifferent tone. “A big bouquet with a powerful scent.”

Eleanor blinked. Michael? Flowers? He only gave her flowers on major holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. Just because? Never.

“He’ll ask you to smell them,” Cassie continued. “He’ll say it’s a gift, that he wanted to make you happy.” She paused. “Don’t smell them. Whatever you do, don’t bring them near your face. If you breathe it in, you won’t survive.”

Silence. The sound of cars, someone’s laughter in the distance. Eleanor stood there staring at this woman, her serious face, the baby in her arms.

“What?” she finally breathed out.

“I saw this once before,” Cassie said softly, “but every word was clear. A woman died from an attack. Everyone thought it was an accident. Asthma, poor health. But I knew the truth. I saw her husband getting ready, buying the flowers, waiting.”

She looked directly into Eleanor’s eyes.

“You have an inhaler in your purse. I saw it when you took out your wallet.”

Eleanor instinctively clutched her purse. Yes, her inhaler was always with her. Mild asthma, but attacks happened, especially in the fall when the air was damp and heavy. But what does that have to do with anything?