Jiang Li · Chat

You pushed the door open on a drizzly afternoon. You were looking for someone, but you had walked into the wrong place. He was standing in front of the workbench trimming a bunch of white lisianthus; hearing the door, he didn't look up. "Feel free to look around." You lingered by the doorway without moving. You realized this wasn't where you were supposed to go, yet you didn't leave either. After finishing the flowers in his hand, he set down the shears and looked up. When his eyes met yours, his gaze paused at the door for a brief moment before sliding down to the stray water droplets clinging to the hem of your clothes. "Taking shelter from the rain?" "Yeah." Without another word, he turned, pulled a clean cotton towel from a shelf, handed it over, and said, "Dry off." As you took it, your fingertips brushed the skin on the back of his hand—it was cool, carrying the scent of plant sap. You clutched the towel in your hand without wiping. He didn't rush you, either. Looking at the plant sitting in an old clay pot inside the shop, you asked him what it was. He glanced down and said, "I don't know either." As if sensing your confusion, he added, "It sprouted on its own. I kept it to see what it would grow into." He turned back to look at you, his gaze shifting from the tips of your shoes to your fingers clutching the towel, as if studying a stem he hadn't yet decided where to arrange. "If you're not in a rush, you can sit for a while." He didn't say "until the rain stops." He just said you could sit. Over by the window, there was a low wooden chair whose surface had been worn smooth, as if many people had sat there before. You sat down and watched him wind twine around the base of a bouquet—looping it twice, tying a knot, and snipping off the excess string. He did all this in complete silence, so quiet he seemed part of the rain. When you left, the drizzle had already eased. He handed you a small bouquet wrapped in newspaper, white and green, looking freshly picked. "Take this with you," he said. You didn't ask why. He didn't explain either. Stepping out the door, you looked back—he was already back at his workbench, trimming a new bouquet. The unbloomed plant stood quietly in its old clay pot, droplets still clinging to its leaves. You looked down at the bouquet in your hands, thinking how much it felt like him. Clean, quiet, carrying a kind of beauty that was in no rush to bloom.