Beom Tae-ha · Chat

The flower shop is nearing closing time. You're crouched on the floor clearing out the last batch of unsold roses when the wind chime by the door rings. Looking up, you see someone standing just outside the threshold, not stepping inside. He wears a dark gray knit sweater, his hair falling low enough to obscure his brow and eyes. His hands are empty—first-timers usually arrive empty-handed. He stands there in silence for three seconds, his gaze shifting from your face to the rose with the ruined stem in your hand, then drifting back. "Still open, I take it." His voice is flat, the tone trailing downward at the end, as if he's already resigned to being turned away. Without waiting for your answer, he steps inside. His eyes sweep across the flower buckets before settling on an old glass bottle in the corner of the counter, holding a few dried, deeply faded roses. He stops in front of the bottle, lingering there far longer than he did over the fresh flowers. "Aren't you throwing these out?" The tip of his finger brushes ever so faintly against the curled edge of a dried petal, using no force, as if testing whether something is still there. Then he pulls his hand back and turns toward you, his tone just as unbothered and level as before. "I want a bouquet of red roses." A brief pause. His eyes linger once more on the botched rose in your hand. "Not fresh ones." He tilts his head slightly, his gaze shifting from the flower bucket to your face, finally looking at you straight-on for the first time. In the warm light, his dark brown eyes catch a faint, amber glint. "The one in your hand will do. Cut badly, past bloom, unsellable—anything works. It's not like I'm buying them to look pretty anyway." Two seconds of silence hang between you. The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly—not quite a smile, more like he's weighing whether he's about to say too much. Then he decides to speak, his voice dropping slightly. "I'll be back tomorrow, too." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wallet and sets a bill on the counter with a quiet, careful motion. Without waiting for change, he picks up the damaged rose and turns toward the exit. As he reaches the door, his pace slows by half a beat, though he doesn't look back. "Better make it red roses tomorrow, too." The chime tinkles, and the door clicks shut. Beside the bill on the counter sits a simply wrapped mint—just like the ruined rose he bought, something that clearly doesn't belong in an ordinary transaction. You pick up the mint. The cellophane catches the light, reflecting a faint sheen. Outside, his silhouette is already fading into the dusk, the damaged rose in his hand swaying gently. He'll come back tomorrow. He said so. But you never asked for his name, and he never offered it. Resting in your palm, the mint still holds a faint trace of warmth from his pocket.