My dear Joe,

Packing in the hopes that this letter finds you in your best spirits. I realized I had not written to you in all my time here and knowing you, I entertain the idea that you must be worried for me. However, I thought, I shall write to you today, and have this heart to heart. As unidirectional as it may be.

Ever since I stepped into this peaceful little town of Bellbarrow, I had counted. Minutes, hours and days until I could leave. It's not that I despised it. I mean, who would loathe such a beauty? Though perhaps, I simply didn't have eyes to appreciate that beauty right when I got here. It takes time, Joe, I realized. It takes time for dust to clear before your eyes. And then you see it.

When I came here, I never thought I'd be inspired for something new. I quite literally bade farewell to my skills as an author, and had no heart to tell you so. You have been not just a sincere manager to me, but a friend as well. And it is harsh at my part, but I shall hope you understand me for this once.

All in all, I never believed I was to write again. If there was a weight, that was of fear. It's nasty, I tell you. And I'm not particularly strong to face it. Or was. I cannot say.

Coming here has changed some things, though. You'd have to excuse me here if I can't mention them now. But I promise you, I shall speak of them sooner than you think. I have managed to write. And it may not seem a big accomplishment seeing that is quite what I do for a living but it is, to me, a celebration. I'm elated, believe you me.

However, what I wrote is not prose for this while. Along with this letter, I'm attaching some verses I have written over the past days. They're scattered and may not make any sense just yet but as always, I wished for you to look at them. Mayhaps by the time I write again, I shall have more.

I'm no poet, again. But if life gives me a chance, maybe I could be one in the future. I would have said, a few weeks ago, that the quality of my work shall decide if I even qualify to be a poet or not. But now, I don't think so.

Even if the quality is not as refined as my previous works, Joe, I'd like for you to know that these verses, or whatever becomes of them, is something I wish to put out for the world. These are words that need to be said, and there are souls who need to listen.

I shall wait for your response, dear friend.

Jimin Park,

16th June, 1923.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

About the time Jimin posts the letter to Joe and begins his walk back towards Mister Conley's residence, it's nearly nine in the morning. His newfound habit of walking to places somehow energizes him. He may be a middle aged man, not made for walking long distances after all these years he'd spent. But something about this town and how with each few steps a new colour of nature comes into his view makes him want to continue this.

He's written several verses over the past few days. They may or may not be related to his last visit at the flower shop, but he's certain that they still hold the similar sentiment. Though, poetry was never Jimin's thing.

The solace he'd found in writing prose had always been a bliss. But when the doors of inspiration had closed themselves on him, he'd searched for whatever little piece of it to grab on. The forty-two years old author can't say he was being acquisitive with that. There were things he'd wished to say, as always, stories to be shared. But something about this once had been different, and he'd figured it as he had written to Joe about it. The stories he desires to share this time are raw and personal, but keeping them in would be a betrayal to his creative tendencies.

And at the same time, putting them on the paper in the simplest prose form scared him.

There was no reason to it. He'd known that he can always talk about issues and sore topics through his characters or writing. But what would be more sore of a topic than his own life? And all the changes made to it?

Poetry was different, he'd realized. You could lay yourself bare between those verses and only those who are meant to resonate with it will know what it is about. For others, as it is, it would merely be rhyming lines to bob their heads to. He could work with that, he could put himself out for the world to see like this. To the least, he knows of a certain person who will understand it.

He hadn't stopped by to see Mister Jeon for the past few days, taking some time to gather his own thoughts — apart from his unusual fondness of the said florist — and put them in verses. Some parts had turned his heart gloomy, he won't lie, but some had brought him utter satisfaction to have finally put it on a paper.

Each day, he'd see Mister Jeon coming to his flower shop from his window, riding on his mint coloured bicycle, sharp seven thirty in the morning. In their last meeting, the author mustered enough courage to vaguely admit that Mister Jeon's flower shop is an inspiration for his new work. Anyhow, he'd kept the contents of his new work solely to himself and thankfully enough, the florist didn't inquire further.

So, for a fact, he'd known that by the time he walks from the post office to Mister Jeon's shop, he will already be there. For the time being, he has no particular reason in his mind to go and see the florist, maybe he'll come up with something once he's there.

He turns the corner towards the street that has been his home for some weeks now, expecting to see the flower shop with its window opened, and Mister Jeon to be working on a bouquet. Though nothing of such sorts come to his view.

The flower shop — Poet's Garden — is closed. There is no sign similar to the ones Mister Jeon hung the other day, indicating any reason as to why the shop would remain closed. Mister Jeon should usually be in there, his bicycle on its everyday spot.

But it's not.

A frown etches itself onto Jimin's forehead. He has no way to contact the florist, to know where he would be, or any knowledge of his whereabouts. The realization dawns on him as a lick of cold sweat against his back. Even if he appears to be fond of the said florist, he truly knows nothing about him. Not even his full name, perhaps.

The author is taking steps before he knows it, hastening as he glances around, memories tousled to spot anyone who could tell him why Mister Jeon wasn't at his shop today. The coffee shop — Jack's Stir Brew — comes to his sight and he's walking towards it, footsteps echoing on cobblestones.

"Excuse me," he calls out to the first person in sight, the young waiter from the other day. "The flower shop— Why is it closed today?"

The boy does a once-over, squinting his gaze at the flower shop in the distance. "I wouldn't know, sir." He sounds unsure. Startled too, maybe.

"Mister Jeon, he—" Jimin shifts his gaze between the shop and the boy, checking his pocket watch. "It's way past the opening time, I'd presume."

"I apologize, sir. But I wouldn't know the reason."

"Where does he live? Do you know that?"

The waiter wears an apologetic expression when he shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

Eventually, the author lets him go. But to say he's addled in his brain would be an understatement. He's bewildered. So much for hospitality and family-knits in this town, the waiter doesn't even know where Mister Jeon lives? For all the time he's known him, he's gotten the grasp of this one fact; that the florist loved his work too much to leave without an explanation. And all of this is too sudden for Jimin to comprehend, so he lets the blame go past and overthinks into it.

Like he always does.

He checks his watch again — nine thirty-seven in the morning. And then the flower shop — closed.

He takes the route in the direction of where he's seen Mister Jeon usually appearing in his line of sight, along with his bicycle, from his window. If they didn't know where he lived, maybe he could find it out himself. From here, the window to his room is visible, however slightly hidden in a way Mister Conley's residence is built. So, it's not entirely possible that Mister Jeon never spotted Jimin from his window.

Lost in his probable thoughts of where the florist could be, where he lives or if he was just a fragment of his imagination, the author strays from the track. He wouldn't know how long he walks for, tip-tap of steps, the only sound over his ragged breathing until he nearly bumps into something— someone.

"I'm sorry," he mouths quickly, raising his head and—

Oh.

"Mister Park?"

The florist stands there, in his brown overcoat and with his mint coloured bicycle, slightly unruly curls and warmth of concern in those eyes.

"Mister Jeon..." He trails off, not so sure of what to say — or ask.

"Where were you off to in such a hurry?"

Jimin takes a look behind him, the flower shop no longer in his vision. Truly though, where was he off to in such a hurry?

"The flower shop— You didn't show up today, I asked the waiter at the cafe and he didn't—" he lets out a trembled breath, halting. "I dreaded something happened to you."

For a fraction of second, Mister Jeon's eyes widen, lips parted, a step taken as he leans closer to Jimin—

And then decides to stay where he is. His hands fumble around the handle of his bicycle, seemingly unsure. "I was at home," he then says.

It is there that the fog around Jimin's mind clears. All of a sudden, his haste and worry becomes an overreaction. Mister Jeon wasn't at his flower shop simply because he was at home — all fine and healthy. Why would he even worry for someone he barely knows?

"I— I'm sorry, I've made the baddest blunder—"

"Mister Park," the florist cuts him off, "were you waiting for me?"

And Jimin doesn't have an answer to that.

Mister Jeon's expression changes, a flicker of guilt at the edges. He reaches for his coat pocket and Jimin's eyes follow. "This morning, I awoke to the thought of your works and Poet's Garden as your inspiration. I remembered then, my mother's favourite selection of poems. Could say I grew up reading and listening to these, might as well know many by heart."

With this, he brings out a palm-sized booklet from his coat pocket. The old pages and rusty binding give its age away. And Jimin senses his hands trembling even before he gets to hold it.

"You say you haven't read much poetry so I took a liberty in assuming that I could lend this to you," he says. "Covered a few miles, met with my sister, went back to the old house and found this. But only now I realize that I must have worried you in turn."

"Not at all," Jimin quickly supplies. "The worry didn't last long."

Somehow that brings a purse of smile to Mister Jeon's lips. "That puts me at ease then." He extends the booklet in Jimin's direction. "It was simple walking down the bookstore and buying a poetry book but this one here, allow me to add, is a recommendation from someone who has read it all."

The author reaches for it, the booklet filling his hands. It weighs close to nothing yet the sentiment with which it pulsates cannot be disregarded. When he peeks inside his heart, he finds his emotions jumbled up in an intangible mess. What to say, what words to use, just how to respond and not seem as if his chest was full to the brim — he struggles.

Elayne's Selection says the title on the booklet, in an old typographer font. The rest of the pages seem similar, as if the little booklet was prepared at home, or a study office — personal and with no intentions of being published. That alone makes the author wonder of the conscience encompassing these few pages.

"Thank you," he manages, somehow, broken. "I shall read and speak of it."

The florist gives him a warm smile, eyes first. "Take your time, no rush."

"Very well."

The author deems this meeting ended right there but then Mister Jeon asks him to walk with him to his shop. His hands itch to open the booklet, to read and understand the poems the florist had grown up with. But something keeps him at bay. He can wait— must wait until he gets back to his room.

"The title," he indulges his mind in a question foremost to his brain, "Elayne's Selection...? Elayne—?"

"My mother," the florist answers without looking at him. "Well, foster mother, I'd say. But my parents lived close by too."

"Oh."

"My mother was Korean, of course." Mister Jeon says as if Jimin's dilemma was clear to his understanding. "Her name was Bak Ha."

"That's a fine name."

"Thank you," he nods. And then with a pause: "Say, you ever had troubles with your name? You know, living in London?"

Jimin can't help but scoff at the memories. "It has been a constant struggle of making people understand that my name isn't Jimmy, short for James," he says. "Yet I may still be Jimmy Park to many."

Mister Jeon huffs a laugh, a soft sound that all but adds to his gentle demeanor. "Jimmy Park. That's amusing."

"You have to be the last person to call me that."

"True," he says, "I'm content with Jimin Park."

And the author doesn't think he's liked the sound of his name this much ever before.

"What about your name?"

"Difficult. Hard. Twister on a tongue to pronounce. I've heard all sorts of things."

"I'm sorry."

"What do you apologize for?" Mister Jeon raises his brows. "Even if your language grasp was weak, you'd still be the only one to say my name right. Beside my parents, that is."

"Your name cannot be hard to pronounce," Jimin observes even when he fails to recall Mister Jeon's real name. Or if he was ever told that.

"It's Jeongguk, if you wonder."

"Uh—"

"I never said it, I realized."

"Well."

"You'd try?" The florist faces him. And Jimin finds out that hope adorns his eyes like stars in the sky. He could get used to this. "Say it? Jeongguk?"

The author stares at Mister Jeon's lips — flushed — copies the pattern and: "Jeongguk...?"

The glint that the florist wears in his warm gaze is much similar to the one Jimin had seen earlier today, when he'd blurted out his worry of something happening to him before the taller man. Now that he sees it again, he can't mistake the awe sitting right there, with a strange hope and admiration. A mix that the author hasn't quite seen before.

Mister Jeon lowers his gaze, and laughs — a surprised sound.

"Was it alright?"

"Perfect," he replies. "Pleasant to ears."

And Jimin has no courage to ask if it was his name that he deemed pleasant or was it his voice?

But before that, he finds them standing outside the flower shop — Poet's Garden. The florist parks his bicycle by the door, fishing his pocket for the keys. The author doesn't move, words seeming to have betrayed him once again. In a matter of a few minutes, he'd not only found out where Mister Jeon had been, but had acquired a booklet of sentimental values and his full name. To his brain that thinks just a little too much, perhaps it was a lot.

"Are you not coming inside?"

"I must take my leave," says Jimin.

"Perhaps you had something to tell me?"

"Me...?"

At this, the florist turns to him. "You waited for me. I presumed you had something rather important to speak of."

Oh, the reason. The reason to see Mister Jeon, that he'd decided to think on spot when asked. All of it seems lost now.

"I uh... I meant to... I—"

"Mister Park?"

The florist tilts his head to one side, eyes unreadable. Jimin fumbles for something to say but coherency saunters away as if it was never his to begin with. So, he only stands there, watching Mister Jeon padding across the cobblestone floor towards him, and stopping merely a feet away from him.

Peach blossoms, a summer morning and mayhaps, rain.

"You may come see me whenever," he whispers, as if it's a secret meant for the author. "Excuses have never done a man much good, I'm afraid."

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The pen within Jimin's fingers feels heavier than usual. This happens when his words are just at the edge of his brain but won't make it out into a fine sentence. Although, he's managed to write many verses in the past days — incomplete or hanging, but there were also some that don't even require a second read. He was impressed as well as disappointed in himself.

He had written. As much as he could when he'd gotten to move his eyes away from the booklet Mister Jeon had given him. Enclosed within the walls of his room, the first night he'd sat down to read the poems, he'd felt an odd honor to have looked into something so personal.

The poems — a fine collection of poets like Shelly, Wilde, Browning and Keats — had left Jimin in awe and wonder. The poetry seemed hand-picked, just like flowers to make a fine bouquet. He'd gathered that Mister Jeon's foster mother would have been quite an avid romantic poetry reader. Each verse, one after another, was an exquisite follow up. To entertain the fact that the florist knows these by heart was pleasant.

There were a few poems that even Jimin himself had particularly adored, managing to scrawl them quick behind his journal because who would want to lose such fine words?

So, he had written. As he did the same right now when he sat in an allotted chair with a tiny desk within Mister Jeon's flower shop.

Ever since the florist made it clear to him that he could come by whenever, it was as if a weight was lifted off Jimin's chest. He was ashamed to admit just how much he'd relied on the florist's company to have kept writing. Where it was haunting that he shouldn't get used to it, it was also thrilling to venture further and explore his abilities beyond knowledge. Besides, he was on the safe side for Mister Jeon believes it is his flower shop that currently inspires his work.

Oh, little does he know.

The florist works on a small bouquet by the main desk and Jimin, with his stolen glances, has managed to scribble words and scrapes in his journal. They would appear no less than nonsense to anyone who was to read them. Thankfully, Mister Jeon had spared him that embarrassment and had not even tried to indulge with his creative process.

It was his presence that made things so... calm? The author could fall asleep. It was, in no way, obstructive. But once in a while, the florist would raise his head from his work and pass him a glance, a smile that touches his eyes and all, and then he'd be going back to his work.

And Jimin would then think. And think. And wonder.

Bell chimes, diverting the author's attention from his journal to the door. The boy from the other day, he remembers — Henry — stands there with his hands secured in the pockets of his tweed coat. On his sight, Mister Jeon perks up, raising his brows.

"Good day, Jeongguk."

"Henry, what brings you here?"