"Ginger tea, no sugar," the barista from Jack's Stir Brew places the adorned teacup before Jimin. He smiles throughout and the author wonders if that's a part of his job.

He wouldn't be so happy with a job like this if he were to step in his shoes for a while, seeing himself meeting so many new people everyday. There's several sides to it, however — for instance, Bellbarrow has more regulars than the new people. And then again, people here seem to have something that Jimin wouldn't imagine spotting within people back in London.

A strange kind of peace, something he might as well steal to take for himself.

"Thank you," he nods at the young boy. "Would you perhaps, also have the morning paper?"

"Sure thing." And in a moment, the boy is handing him the newspaper, taking his leave after inquiring if he needs something.

This fine morning of the town Bellbarrow, Jimin had awoken to the sight of the Lavender bouquet on his desk, and just like that, he had a reason to get this day moving. Breakfast with Mister Conley and his family was excused for him being here at Jack's Stir Brew, the occupied table giving him a plain view of Mister Jeon's flower shop — Poet's Garden.

No, there was nothing planned there, he'd tell himself. He simply came in here early enough for this table to be empty. And he took it.

Instinct and impulse has never gotten the best of Jimin, even in his forty-two years of life, he's lived by calculations and borderline perfections. But for this once, and without even bringing it into his foremost consciousness, his limbs obeyed what they may call impulse. In the name of inspiration, he chases it. And that brings him here — curious eyes taking in the flower shop as if it's a wonder placed among mundanes.

The morning paper doesn't have much news to begin with when he spreads it before him, quickly going through bolded headlines. Nearby towns had their fair share of theft and murders, but it seems as if Bellbarrow was as peaceful as a fragment of your happiest imagination. The town was a dream, yet for the past two days that Jimin had been here, he hadn't quite had it in himself to call it home. It appears calm, though it is no home to him.

At least, not yet.

A bell rings, the door to the Poet's Garden opens and out walks the florist. The newspaper in Jimin's hand lowers below his line of sight and before he knows, he's staring.

Mister Jeon has a small wooden board in his hand that he hangs over the door, his back turned to Jimin. The bright glow of early morning is like a caress of silk against his being. Dark pants, sweater the colour of dried autumn leaves, and his usual gray apron with a sprouting flower adding to his attire. Once the sign is hung there, he examines it, taking a step back and tilting his head to the side. Like an off-handed detail, the sight of his dark yet long curls fluttering in the dimmed wind flickers through Jimin's mind.

It happens too quickly then. Mister Jeon turns over and his eyes fall over Jimin. Even if there seems to be a great distance of some meters between them, the sudden contact has the author's old heart skipping a tired beat. The florist's eyes light up first — and there is a curse mouthed under the author's breath for noticing that — and then it is that his lips catch on to the smile. His hand raises, and he's waving at him.

Struck right there, Jimin doesn't know how to respond. It won't be more than a few seconds, yet he'd believe he was stuck in this reverie for eons. And it is only then that he lets the newspaper go, gathering himself for a mere wave of hand.

He waves back.

The smile on Mister Jeon's face only grows, and oh dear, what is this strange sensation that creeps up through Jimin's system?

Putting an end to his misery, the florist walks back inside his shop, the bells ring, and the door closes. But Jimin's state remains quite there, confusing him to his core.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Closing early today, is what the sign says outside Mister Jeon's flower shop, as Jimin stands there and examines it, anxious hands tucked into his coat pockets.

It had taken him a fit of courage, all mustered up to finally leave the table from the coffee shop and take a closer look at the flower shop. He purposely avoids what it would appear like to anyone observing him right now, even when his sight doesn't show him anyone who is particularly zoned out on him. It had always been like that, however — a little too much thought put into things, and each time he'd wondered what others would think of him.

Three decades since he lost his childhood behind, and from there on, all that there were the failed attempts to get rid of unwanted thoughts in his mind. But it never happened.

A cold sigh escapes his lips as he wills his steps to move, and eventually enter the flower shop. The chime of bells greet him, followed by the sight of Mister Jeon tending to a small pot with his back to Jimin. The sound of bells sure does notify him for he's giving half a glance back.

"Shop closes early today, the sign outside says it. I'm sorry, but—" and then he turns, eyes round, dark yet somehow, so bright. "Oh, it's you," he lets the pot settle behind him, turning over. "Nearly made me think I wrote something exceptionally wrong on the sign with how long you stood and stared at it."

Words had never betrayed Jimin before, holding on to him when everyone left. But twice in a row now, his brain had run out of them, of the sweet threads he usually puts them together with. And all that comes out is:

"Mister Jeon."

"Mister Park," he returns the greeting with a warm smile that is no different than the smile of the boy serving him coffee down the street, but at the same time, it's nothing like it. "What brings you here today?"

"I uh..." Mister Jeon must think he's a disgrace to authors, or is he even one? Where are his words? "I wished to... thank you."

"What for?" The florist's hands are unoccupied, Jimin notices. His sole attention seems to be on the author, and even when it's not the first time it has happened — he's been in crowds larger than the entire town of Bellbarrow — this renders him a strange kind of bare.

"The flowers. Yesterday."

Mister Jeon smiles again, amused this time. He has a kind of smile that begins at his eyes first, and then reaches his lips — a fascinating journey.

"You paid for them, Mister Park."

"Oh yes, I did," he says, "but the gratitude lies elsewhere."

"And where would that be?"

"In your choice of flower."

At this, the florist turns silent, eyebrows raised as Jimin's implication dawns on him. Very slowly.

"You suggested I take lavender home. I didn't realize you could tell that I—"

"That you were troubled?"

The author meets his eyes and spots the same glint from yesterday to be there. Is Mister Jeon trying to read him again? Can he even do that?

"Do you always read through people like that?" He's asking before he knows it.

"Not at all," he breathes, averting his gaze, "It was... just blatantly obvious, that is."

"Obvious?"

"Your fists balled in your pockets, eyes wandering as if they don't quite know what they're looking for," he quickly replies, as though it is something at the top of his brain. And for some reason, it appears insincere to the author.

"I truly didn't know what I looked for," he decides to let the conversation stretch, "I was merely strolling through the street. And it was the cold that had me curling my fists, Mister Jeon."

The florist's eyes are unreadable then, leading Jimin to continue.

"I assumed you read through people to sell them flowers." Part rude, part Cyndia's words. Jimin instantly regrets. "I— I'm sorry, it was incredibly rude of me—"

"Not at all, please," for some reason, it brings a pursed smile to Mister Jeon's lips, amused yet again. "People come here knowing what flower they want, Mister Park. They don't usually let me read through. But you did."

A strange hand of heat curls against Jimin's stomach — maybe he hasn't eaten to his fill. Cyndia's words from earlier flash in his mind, of him having walls that were unbreakable. How was it impossible for her to see through — someone who has known his words for so long now, when in a flicker, Mister Jeon had read him almost effortlessly?

There's a fear, a thin line of it, and above that, there's something else that he can't quite name.

"Anyhow, you look for inspiration, I hear?" Mister Jeon is then saying, walking back to the plant he tended to, coming back with a little clover leaf in his hand.

He pads across the shop, walks until he's standing right before the author. It's too close, much closer than the distance they had when he had waved at him from the coffee shop. But somehow, the sensation creeping up Jimin's system was back. And this time, it's just a painful pleasantry.

"May I?" Mister Jeon asks and it takes Jimin a long while to realize that he wants to pin the leaf to his lapel.

He nods, whispering an embarrassingly hazed: "Don't mind if you do."

His line of sight is so clear that he can spot the stray thread by the collar of Mister Jeon's sweater. He wonders if it got stuck somewhere to come off, or did it happen during washing? Drying? Stacking? Wearing?

Peach blossoms. Jimin remembers smelling them back in a wedding that he once attended. They burst against his skin when Mister Jeon steps even further, mastered fingers pinning the clover leaf to his lapel. His eyes are focused, and way too close for Jimin to even count his lashes.

They would be warm, brown in colour, for just anyone. But dear god, why does it feel like they have so much more to them? They appear as if they take in a lot, and give an eerie comfort that touches you like a garden.

"Hmm," he admires his work, fingers still holding onto his lapel as he raises his eyes to meet Jimin's.

Round and in full bloom. Probably a night sky. Perhaps a sunny field. Everything and nothing at the same time. All he knows is that he's never seen eyes like this ever before.

"Clover leaf is said to bring you good luck," he's saying, in a voice that is lower, "inspiration that you search for, in this case. And you must not pay for it, I insist. Consider it an apology."

"Why do you apologize?" Jimin sounds like he's miles away from his own body.

"For reading through you."

The author wishes to tell him that he needn't apologize, that he wasn't disturbed by the fact that he had read him this way — rather thankful, for this was never done before. The words, however, remain within the seams of his lips, eyes locked with someone who is supposed to be a stranger, someone he's barely met a day ago, yet they hold their ground as if he had whatever it was to give — whatever it was that Mister Jeon's eyes took in.

"Jeongguk?"

The bell chimes and an unknown voice slips through. Mister Jeon startles, blinking, head raised to see who it was. His fingers meticulously remain locked around his lapel, and it's only when the other person walks across the shop and towards him that he lets it go, stepping away and taking with the peach blossoms. The field, the garden, suddenly not Jimin's to step in.

"Henry, what are you doing here?"

"You're closing early," the boy — Henry, says as if it's a fact. "Or you forgot?"

"Didn't," Mister Jeon clicks his tongue, rafting through the shop, removing his apron, "sign's out there."

"You got a customer?"

Jimin takes in the boy's appearance, thin, blond with a trail of freckles over his nose. He looks much younger than either of them. If anything, Jimin would believe he's a student. The boy seems to be just as curious about the author's presence in the flower shop, eyes questioning when they land on the clover leaf pinned to his lapel.

"I—" Jimin begins.

"Mister Park is a regular."

It takes a while for Mister Jeon's words to resonate with him, and when they do, they have the author parting his lips, wonderment intertwined with confusion painted all across his face.

"Never seen this gentleman here before," Henry narrows his eyes at the florist.

"And how often do you stop by?"

Somehow, that has the young boy raising his hands in defense, grinning ear to ear. "Alright, you win. But do close quick now. Any more later than this and we're dead meat."

"After you."

The boy gives him one last glance that appears nothing less than a warning before he's storming out of the shop, steps hurried and urgent.

"I'm afraid but my little garden must be closed now, Mister Park." Says the florist, warm browns softening for him — or did they?

"Of course," Jimin steps back, intending to walk out just like that. "Shouldn't have walked in here wasting your time when the sign clearly stated otherwise."

Mister Jeon smiles — eyes first. "I indulged you," he says, "but worry not. Henry isn't as mad as he seems."

"Very well," Jimin purses his lips, "I shall take my leave now."

The florist nods. "Goodbye, Mister Park."

And once that the author steps out of the flower shop, he walks — walks until his feet carry him right back to his residence and within the walls of his room. Peach Blossoms, wondrously and somehow, still waft around him, as if the scent has found its home in his clothes, interwoven with the fabric. His muddled heart rests nowhere near peace, impatient fingers searching through his desk, quite unaware of what they look for.

All until a pen comes beneath the curl of his fingers, and his empty journal becomes subjected to it. There are so many words in his mind, adjectives describing his situation just perfectly, but what even is the right way to put them on the paper? The thread to tie them all harmoniously — he's afraid he's lost it again.

So, he writes. Whatever it is that he wishes to say. And only when it's done that he sits here, holding on to his racing heart and taking in the words he'd scribbled. His body seems to know what it is about — who it is about. Though, consciously enough, he refuses to acknowledge it.

Just yet.

The dark ink stares back at him from his journal, and beside that, the Lavender bouquet – though a little wilted – lies in its grace. As if joined, as if related. He closes his eyes and lets the words sink in.

A million stories

wonders

and skies,

Find a home

in those eyes,

As though,

I could have

ever survived.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The coming days leave Jimin stuck to his room.

It was a reverie that he couldn't get out from, words upon words, arranged or not, presenting themselves on the paper for him. He couldn't say if he'd call it inspiration because all he'd done since was to spew sentences that oddly enough, were shaped like poems.

But he was no poet.

Yet for the sake of vision, he kept writing until he had a good few pages filled with sentences. The direction was clear, as flushed as he was admitting it. A certain florist happened to be the reason why he was writing again, the core to his words — afflatus. And selfishly enough, it wasn't something he wished to lose. Whatever the shape of his creativity may be, it was owed to Mister Jeon.

It was, anyhow, a matter to attend later if he should tell this to him. Or just how he'd do it.

Some sentences were for the warm brown eyes he'd seemed to never have seen before, some for the delicacy of putting together flowers. Some of them, however, were for this wee little town, for its people and generally enough, the author's own stray thoughts. To some extent, he was addled at this, at how this time around, his words chose to twirl on paper in the shape of poems and not prose.

But for now, he let this be.

When he finally walks out of the Conley residence one early morning, it is to the sight of slightly changed weather. The sunlight peeks through clouds and there appears no indication of these clouds to go away anytime soon. Air here in Bellbarrow turns crisp, making him pull the checkered coat tighter around his chest, blinking and taking in the unusually bright sky.

"Where would you be headed off to this early, young man?"

Mister Conley, before the little flower bed just outside his house, sat in an old-looking chair, a shovel in his hand. The flowers before him, that must have been white once, are now a cluster of dried beige petals, wilted and all. Even the green leaves look like they may have seen the better days, but this was not it.

"Just around the street," the author isn't so sure of himself, slightly abashed to say he wandered in the search of inspiration that was found in that little flower shop. "Coffee shop. The bookstore, maybe."

"Ah, right." Somehow, that convinces the old man.

"How about you? Early gardening?"

"Wouldn't say that," the man winces, straightening up. "I call them my beloved gardenias, or called. What difference does it make anymore? A couple days before your arrival, Bellbarrow went under rain. Two days, two nights, and no intentions to stop. Thought everything would soak beyond recognition." His fingers reach out to stroke a petal — dull and brown. "Rain stopped eventually, but it took with all my hardwork. These little ones shan't make a fine bouquet anymore."

"Oh, were these to make a bouquet? For whom, if you don't mind?"

"Cyndia and Jane's mother," the man's voice turns hoarse, a dull edge to it. "Gardenias used to be her favorite. Each year I'd make a bouquet for her, my own planted, own grown, gift for her when I visit her grave. Which is in a day but they—'' he eyes the flowers, "they're good for nothing."

If anything, Jimin understands the sentiment. The flowers do look dead enough to be ploughed away now. But before he could offer Mister Conley a share of his generous idea, the man is speaking again.

"Could've gone and gotten new flowers for this one but it's a tiring drive across two towns."

"Or you could visit the flower shop down the street?"

"Flower shop?"

"The flower shop," Jimin repeats, hesitant, "Poet's Garden...?"

Mister Conley frowns, the brighter light making him appear older than the other days Jimin has seen him in. "I drove miles to get these flowers the last time. Didn't see no flower shop around then."

"How long has it been, you say?"

"A few years back, I suppose."

Jimin blinks, nodding slow. Perhaps that was way before Mister Jeon even started his shop, hence he was unaware of it.

"You haven't quite been in need of flowers all this time," he says. "But I'm fairly certain the florist down the street can make you a fine gardenia bouquet. At least, for the time being, to gift your wife one. Later, you may start over and mend the flower bed."

The man ponders, seeming to trust the author's words. "Sounds pleasant to my ears, young man," he then says. "I must finish this here and then I—"