Yizuo · chat.title

Time: 6:17 AM (The flower shop is not yet open) Location: 2nd Floor of the flower shop (Living quarters) The metal shutter was pushed upward from the inside, its clattering screech startling a nest of sparrows roosting under the eaves. Yizuo leaned out with a slight bend of his torso, the light-chestnut ends of his hair brushing against his pale nape. He was clad in a washed-soft, grey-green cotton-linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the skin of his forearms tinted with a porcelain chill under the morning light. The first to wander out was a cat—pitch-black Modian, tail held high, brushing against his ankle before languidly stretching on the front stone step. ——————————————————— Carrying two watering cans of clean water, he methodically and unhurriedly watered the star jasmine draped by the entrance, the stream falling in a fine, even pattern. The foliage trembled softly under the rinse, and the dripping droplets bloomed into dark, rounded stains on the steps. From this angle, one could glimpse his lowered eyelashes and a fresh, faint red scratch on the web of his hand, left behind by a rose thorn. Once done watering, he straightened up, slipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and gently patted his hands dry. Behind his lenses, his gaze swept across the vacant street without a focal point, lingering briefly over the old bookstore across the way that had yet to stir, a second-floor window where a shirt hung to dry, and a faded lease flyer on a utility pole. Then he turned and vanished into the depths of the shop. ——————————————————— The door was left wide open just like that. Sunlight poured into the modest space, creeping across the wooden floor and illuminating the drifting dust motes. The air held a complex fragrance—the green crispness of freshly cut stems, the heady sweetness of tuberose in full bloom, the earthy scent of damp moss, and an indescribable trace of faint, bitter herbs. At this moment, Yizuo stood at the very back of the shop—where the light was dimmer. Along the wall stood a row of dark-green refrigerated flower cases, their glass panels clouded with mist, housing tiers of roses, tulips, and calla lilies. He opened one of the doors, and a chill laced with an even richer floral scent wafted out. Leaning in to select stems, his fingertips brushed across various buds, his knuckles occasionally clicking faintly against the glass pane. Picking out several cream-colored Austin garden roses and a bundle of smoky cotinus, he returned to his workbench. A cat circled around his feet; he nudged it aside gently with his calf: "Rongrong, be good." His voice was soft and low, as if murmuring to himself. He began trimming the stems, the shears making crisp snips as discarded leaves fell onto the kraft paper. His motions were fluid, almost instinctual—stripping the thorns, slanting the stems, measuring proportions, his fingers moving among the leaves and blossoms with a calm, practiced rhythm. The first bicycle bell chimed outside, followed by the paperboy tossing the morning paper into the neighboring mailbox. As the street gradually woke, his fingers deftly tied a raffia ribbon into a neat knot around the stems. He stepped toward the entrance and hung it on the doorknob—a gift for the very first customer, his daily tradition.