Quite literally, all the quick-need belongings of his were packed in his coppery suitcase — the old rusty thing, but he can't seem to part from it. There isn't much Jimin will need for his travel to the good old town of Bellbarrow, he believes. It's just a matter of a few weeks, counted days on his hands, and then according to the plans, he'd at least have a manuscript to his name for his return.

Leaving the luxuries of London behind could've been a hard decision for someone — or really, anyone and everyone else. But then, anyone and everyone else won't be him.

The fear had been a bit around, but still lingering ever since he'd typed in the last words to his latest book. And what had the words been exactly? …and the goodbyes were waved, farewell, once and for all.

Haunting.

It was as if he hadn't just bid a farewell to the words he'd worked with, an entire routine of writing, suggestions from Joe— Joseph, his manager, inspiration that had swirled around like an unwanted yet anticipated guest — but as if he'd bid his goodbyes to his own self as an author. You see, that's what they'd be scared about. Artists, authors, poets and all that comes from the heart, they fear losing exactly that.

And Jimin wasn't an exception.

The poignant air had been still around him ever since the book was published. The strange sensation of detachment had purged in and from there on, he didn't recognize his own words anymore. He'd planned to discuss this eerie feeling with Joe, who has to know of his downfalls in case he's waiting to be recruited by a better author. But where all of this came in like a tangled thread ball, he hadn't known just where to include Joe in.

Jimin Park wouldn't call himself a best-selling author, but he wasn't exactly a small one either. His books are anticipated, he knows of that. A circle of people, he'd like to think, interested in reading his way around words, of the philosophies in his mind that he better not say out loud for the world to hear, wrapped up and presented to them from behind the crisp pages of printed books.

And they take it, they take it all.

He wouldn't understand just what resonates with them the most, or why would they want to read what he writes. But he does it regardless, going as it comes, harboring a little fear that each time he picks his pen up and jots a sentence down will be his last, along with many other worries as a writer. He remembers what his mother used to say, of how she'd talk about authors and poets, dead by the lakes, out of their minds because they have the kind of scares haunting them that a normal working mind won't understand.

He'd wondered if he'd end up like them too?

When the forty-two years old author had begun to feel like he was losing his essence as a writer, and many other unsaid worries settled behind that, he'd asked Joe if he could travel to clear his head. The agreement followed that, seeing how it had been a solid year and a half since his latest book release. Because if visiting a new town would help him clear his head and gather inspiration, then so be it.

If he needs to feed, he needs to keep writing. And maybe, just maybe, that rule of society shouldn't apply to people who do what they do because it comes from their heart, but it does. Heart, he'd say, is a terrible combination with what they call one's mind. And together, they hold the ability to ruin weaklings like him, the ones who feel a little too much.

The train makes a stop in Bellbarrow, sharp nine in the morning, and he takes off with only one suitcase in his hand. His favorite brown blazer holds the crisp morning air of the little town to a bay, and the telltale smell of a railway station fills his nose. It isn't much different from London, if he were to blatantly ignore the hustle bustle of people. Truly, there were much less of them around here, merely a few gentlemen dotted about, newspaper vendors, a couple of ladies hurrying in the morning, and somewhere in the distance, the station master takes a bite into his breakfast.

As far as he can remember, he was to be picked by a sturdy man named Mister Conley. The retired man had a nice house just towards the west of the town, and he'd generously rented a room for Jimin to stay in as long as he'd like. By the sounds of it, the man appears to be chatty, though Jimin knows better than to believe his judgment. It has not exactly been quite right most times.

Another thirty minutes into the future, and Jimin now stands on the grounds of the room that will be his home for the coming days.

Mister Conley, apparently, had recognized him before he could, coming by at the railway station and offering him a ride in his motor car to his house. For a retired man in the 1920s, Mister Conley had some fortune to his name, and Jimin could tell that when he'd stepped into his house.

A beautiful double-storey building with six rooms, a spacious kitchen and a drawing room for guests is about the best to be afforded in times like these. The walls of the room provided to him were painted in a light shade of beige, traced with a floral pattern that the author wasn't quite accustomed to. A bare wooden cupboard stands on the far left corner, a single bed and of course, a window with a desk for him to work.

"The room's airy and well lit," Mister Conley is saying from where he still hovers about Jimin's space, checking on the wall lamp. "You needn't worry 'bout nothing, Mister Park. The toiletries are stacked in there for you, freshen up to your liking." He turns towards Jimin, lively eyes too bright for an old man. "Come join us for tea when you're done, eh? You're always welcome."

"Us…?" Jimin finds his words.

"Me and my daughters," he waves a hand at the author, "were you not aware?"

"Ah, I beg your pardon, I wasn't."

"Fret not," he replies, "It'll be a delight for you to see them. Pretty certain Cyndia knows of your books too."

"I'm flattered," Jimin manages a smile.

"Shall see you for tea then?"

"Sure, Mister Conley."

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Cyndia Conley, the eldest daughter to Mister Conley, as it turns out, was quite a literature nerd. The woman of twenty-six years had a particular liking towards books and had an entire shelf dedicated to it. Jimin's own publications were settled there, presented in a glass case as if the woman was proud to own them.

And once he'd gotten to talk to her, he'd known why.

"Quite a lovely morning, isn't it?" She says once their little gathering is done with the breakfast — a helper, an elderly maid, quick with scurrying the utensils away.

"Oh, it's the same old, Cyndia." Jane, her younger sister, chips in. "You've lived in Bellbarrow all your life."

Cyndia fixes her with a cold stare, continuing her observations. It seems as if the younger one remains a step behind in understanding her sister's nature, which shouldn't however, but is slightly amusing to Jimin.

"What would your plans be on this fine day, Mister Park?" Asks Cyndia.

Jimin blinks, eyeing his finished cup of tea. Mister Conley to his right turns his gaze at him, expecting an answer. "I should like to stroll around," he manages, vaguely wondering why she'd ask that, and then leaving it to the courtesy. "See Bellbarrow."

"Are you perhaps taking a carriage?" Mister Conley asks.

"No," Jimin replies, "I shall be on my feet. Just the street below for today."

"There's quite a chatter down there," adds Jane with an uncertain shrug, "don't you think it's too loud?"

"Well, Miss Conley, you should come to London then." Offers Jimin with a smile.

At this, Jane blinks at him, a faint hue covering her cheeks before she decides to look away, busying herself with her hands.

"A place of people, a place too noisy for an old man like me," Mister Conley is saying. "If you ask, I'd rather be here, minding quite the chatter down my street."

"You're hardly an old man," Jimin tells him.

"Oh, you flatter me." The man waves a hand at him, grinning ear to ear.

"I plan a town visit today," Cyndia begins, "you're more than welcome to join me, Mister Park."

Jimin waits a beat, thinking of several ways to turn her down. As much as he'd be delighted to agree, he looked for nothing more than some time to himself today, wandering in the search of his lost inspiration. Beginnings were never easy, but once they set foot, he believes it might get easier. Although before he comes up with a fine excuse, Mister Conley is putting in his share of words.

"Oh, please do," he's saying, "Cyndia must show you around, even if it's down the street. It's certainly nice to have a guide, isn't it?"

"I'd love to," the girl beams, "if Mister Park allows."

Their expecting eyes leave no other choice for Jimin to avail. He wonders if he'll ever be brave enough to just say no…?

"Very well."

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

What pace was Jimin to discover the town, he wouldn’t know. He didn’t quite trust his own intuitions here, or the way it was reaching back to the inspiration he once had in abundance. Starting out small and slow was something he’d decided this morning, still in the little bed of his room in Mister Conley’s house.

It had been way before the sun even came up, yet the hue of twilight was dotting the edges of the sky. When Jimin had peered through the window, he had noticed several other houses in the row along with a few tiny shops littered across. Now, they weren’t exactly tiny, but for a man to have lived nearly all his life in a city like London, he had grown accustomed to spaces twice the size of the population.

However, as it seemed, within these tiny shops, people of Bellbarrow found solace that he couldn’t find within the walls of his spacious apartment back in London. He’d spotted a cafe from his window, tell-tale with a few chairs and tables lying before it. There had happened to be a bookstore that Jimin had taken a particular mental interest in, adding it to his visit list today. And lastly in the line of these tiny shops, there had been a flower shop.

There was no way for him to tell that the shelter in question sported the lives of flowers, with nothing to give it away in the closed shop. But then he’d read the nameplate — Poet’s Garden.

And he wouldn’t lie when he said he had been intrigued.

The carriage drops them off on the street of Mister Conley’s house in an exact hour or so, Jimin would believe. The town tour with Miss Conley hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Jimin’s mind had been speculating it to be. The young woman gave a few references from his own writings as they passed by the local library and some public spots. No matter how hard you squint, people of Bellbarrow were scarce, scattered around busy with their own tasks. And even when Miss Conley had strongly believed that her town was one about the chatter and noise, Jimin had found himself amusingly contradicting.

Jimin gets off the carriage first, offering a polite hand to Miss Conley, who takes it with a grateful smile, stepping off the carriage. The use of carriages to travel has lessened in London now, but as the author sees, the small towns may still be using it to get by.

“You’re quite a gentleman, Mister Park.” She says, taking in the surroundings of the street her very own house is situated in.

“Don’t mention,” he murmurs before letting go of her hand. “I should apologize for this little promenade I suggested. If you happen to be tired, however, we could walk to your residence instead.”

“You mustn't worry about that,” she replies. “I believe I’m the one who had you altering your plans for today. You weren’t in the mind to explore the town just yet.”

Jimin pauses for a moment, blinking and then nodding slow. “Was it… obvious?” He asks, clasping his hands behind his back as they begin to walk.

“Not to others, no,” she says. “Though, maybe it keeps slipping your mind that even if I may not know you personally, a reader knows the author in a way that is quite… unexplainable.” She purses her lips. “Not too intimate, but not entirely a stranger.”

“Makes me cautious of my words, Miss Conley.”

“Oh, don’t be,” she says quickly, “your walls are still intact.”

Although Jimin wonders a little too much about her words, he doesn’t ask. Nearly four decades of his life, a good fortune poured down on the paper for everyone to read, and he still had walls around him? He’d never know just how much he gave away and just how much he held in. It was like a constant struggle within his mind that he couldn’t get rid of.

The cafe — precisely named Jack's Stir Brew — has a fill of its customers at eleven a.m on a Monday morning. The tables placed outside under the extended shelter of the warm coloured coffee shop are lined with people. Truth be told, Jimin isn't particularly hungry, or thirsty, per se. But if it comes to that, he did ponder over how it would be like to sit here and enjoy some coffee.

From here, the flower shop comes into his broad view, and would definitely be a source of entertainment for whoever sits here. The sign on the door deems it open, and unlike earlier today there is a mint coloured bicycle adorned with a tiny bucket to its front, and there are a couple of flower pots settled right before the door, finally giving it a faint touch of what it was.

"Would you like to order something, sir?"

Jimin turns his attention towards the man who is significantly younger than him, an apron tied around his waist as he pads by collecting orders and empty mugs. The author shakes his head, taking a questioning glance to the woman on his side.

"Miss Conley?"

"No, thank you," she states, though quickly leans in to add more at the sight of a confused look on the barista's face. "Mister Park is a guest at our residence. He wished to stroll around the street, get to know the people."

The man returns an understanding nod. "Welcome to Jack's Stir Brew then, good sir. We have all kinds of teas, coffees and cakes, you name it."

"Thank you," Jimin smiles, "I do look forward to having it sometime soon."

"Most certainly," he purses his lips, then excuses himself inside the coffee shop.

"Would you like to step in?" Asks Cyndia.

"No," he replies, "we should keep walking."

And a few more steps bring them to the Poet's Garden.

The aroma of freshly bloomed flowers fills Jimin's senses before their sight can. Being a person who feels a little too much to bring emotion within the reach of twenty-six alphabets, flowers were one thing he had symbolized in his works a lot. He remembers studying them one fine evening years ago, of how they represented many, many things, held sentiments within their colours and wee little petals. He'd been in awe, wondering how it would be if the entire world would begin to understand them.

Would it be worth a while if everyone spoke the language of flowers? Or are some things better left untouched?

The ringing bell indicates the arrival of customers into the small shop. Although it may appear crammy in space to anyone who stood out, the insides are cozy. Flower pots placed at the corners, bouquets lining the main desk and a few tools to spew it lying to the side. The aroma of fresh flowers is like a wave of nostalgia, though it renders Jimin unable to explain what he truly felt.

The owner seems to have been at the back of the shop, and while Miss Conley takes interest in a flower bowl, Jimin finds himself gravitating towards the main desk, his hat off his head and clutched under his arm, eyeing the Forget Me Not bouquet that was under construction. Needle and a thread, scissors and a tape. He can't help but wonder how rough the process would be to yield something so satisfying. Is it quite like the process of his own writing? At first, it's haphazard, wouldn't make any sense. And then it begins to place itself right into the spots.

Just like it's meant to be. Words and petals, all the same.

"Buying flowers for the lady first thing in the morning?"

Jimin raises his head, and is met with a pair of dark eyes. And god, would he have seen eyes like that ever before?

The owner appears to be no younger than him, dark hair framing his round face, dotted with a pair of eyes that shine quite like anything Jimin has ever seen. The man wears simple yet warm clothes, a gray apron tied around his waist, the pocket of which delicately sports a flower — almost as if it sprouted from there.

"Oh, he's not—"

Jimin finds himself replying before Cyndia. "It's not exactly morning, sir…?"

"Jeon," he answers, lips pursed, "Mister Jeon."

"You're Korean?"

"As it appears. Are you too?"

"Yes," Jimin breathes, not too fond of the fact that even though he was Korean, the most he'd lived there had been the first few months of his life, then moving to London with his father as early as he'd begin to store the memories in the nooks and crannies of his brain.

"Oh," and then the man obviously says something in Korean that Jimin fails to understand. However, the bright light in his eyes tells the author that whatever he had uttered may have been the warm words of greeting.

"I'm deeply sorry but I moved to London way too early for me to understand that." He feels heat creeping up his cheeks, and he blames the definite on the weather. There is no way he was being embarrassed for something he cannot change.

"Oh, I apologize, Mister…?"

"Park."

"Mister Park," the florist lets the words play on his lips. "I've never seen you around before."

"He's a guest," Cyndia helpfully provides.

"Ah," he nods at her, "a distant acquaintance?"

Jimin furrows his brows, wondering if this piece of information was any way useful to Mister Jeon. But then, he keeps forgetting that Bellbarrow isn't exactly London — and in towns where walls are thin, people tend to care.

"He's an author, preferably."

"I rented a room at Mister Conley's, looking for inspiration for my next book." Jimin decides to put in.

Mister Jeon's brows then raise, a thin smile playing on his lips. Jimin can't help but notice the tiny gestures of his features, the harmony they moved with and how they eventually gave the florist's face a pleasantly strange feel.

"Inspiration, eh?" Mister Jeon lowers his gaze, picking back on the scissors and tending to the flowers on his desk. "Wouldn't say Bellbarrow is particularly inspirational."

"You cannot be a judge of that," Jimin replies slowly, "maybe I've already found my inspiration."

"Oh, have you, Mister Park?" He looks up to meet the author's eyes and there's a glint of question there. It's not quite related to what he's asked, and eerily enough, Jimin can tell that.

"Perhaps, yes."