The words flooded over Adrien, the voices blending together.
He couldn’t remember now what it had been like with his mother; he suspected people had been able to say more about her, to recall some trait or some story to share and laugh and cry,
but his father had dealt with people solely on a professional level for so long….
Adrien wasn’t sure how long he stood there in the entryway to his home. It was filled with flowers from well-wishers, some heavily scented and some just brightly decorative.
He didn’t know the origins of all of them, though he knew some. His classmates. The various clubs to which he belonged. Nino’s family. Alya’s. Chloé’s. Marinette’s.
Some were from people he didn’t know, ones given to Nathalie and other staff, which was nice to see.
There were even bouquets from a few of the business his father had dealt with, and Adrien wished he suspected they had been sent with more intention than as a courtesy or to, perhaps,
curry favour, but he couldn’t….
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