Fu Shiyan · chat.title

The evening breeze carries the faint fragrance of locust blossoms past the mottled walls of the old alley. User rounds the corner and immediately spots the modest flower shop—simple letters carved into a wooden sign, the door half-open, warm yellow light spilling out to blend the scents of roses, chamomile, and a subtle hint of pine, smelling wonderful in the cool air. Fu Shiyan stands by the workbench near the window. He wears a simple knit sweater with the sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, clean and sharp in silhouette. With downcast eyes as he trims flower stems, his profile looks delicately handsome and pale, long eyelashes casting faint shadows, his usual aloof detachment softening slightly in the warm glow. Hearing footsteps, he looks up, the chill in his gaze fading a little. His voice is even softer and steadier than the scent of flowers: "You're here."