It was already 7pm when Lee Howon realised he’d forgotten his mother’s birthday. Cursing his bad memory and the relentless rain drenching the streets, he found himself in a frantic search for anything he could give her when he showed up at the family home – undoubtedly late, most definitely soaked and dead if he was empty handed. The busy street near the subway station was crowded with school kids, couples on midweek dates and businessmen on their way home, filing along the wet pavement, ducking into the numerous coffee shops and small bars. Looking this way and that, he desperately sought out a shop, just any shop where he might get a little gift. It didn’t need to be elaborate or fancy, hell even a card would do, but he had to get something.

He’d almost given up, wondering if he might be able to grab her a box of chocolates at the 7/11 near her apartment, when he saw it; faintly lit by a warm glow, the sign outside worn with age but in an almost charming way, the dark green paint flaking a bit around the gold-leaf lettering: Jang’s Flowers. Perfect, Howon grinned to himself, I’ll just get her a bunch of whatever and then she’ll be happy.

A bell on the door chimed lightly when he opened it, and he was immediately hit by a heady floral scent with undertones of rich earth, typical of florists. There was quiet music playing from small speakers hidden behind tall, green leafy plants against the wall, and the whole place was dimly lit and cool.  Howon shook his head, droplets of rain water flying from his hair onto the plants around him as the door swung shut with a soft thud.

The stillness of the place was broken by a small giggle from the counter, and Howon looked up to see who he presumed was the owner smiling at him, a large bouquet of flowers in his hands, halfway through wrapping them in brightly coloured paper. His hair was dyed a striking shade of hot pink, which struck Howon as a little odd in such a subdued setting. 

“They probably needed watering anyway,” said the stranger, nodding towards the plants by the door.

His smile never seemed to leave his lips, and Howon felt himself unable to resist grinning back at him.

“Looking for anything in particular?” The man asked softly, sticking the paper around the flowers down with masking tape.

Howon approached the counter slowly, finding it hard not to stare at the florist’s nimble fingers. Suddenly his throat felt dry.

“M-my mother… it’s her birthday.” He inwardly grimaced at the stutter, wanting to kick himself.

Since when did he regress into a middle-schooler?

“Oh! Well you’ve come to the right place. Tell me, what is she like?”

Howon stared blankly for a few seconds at the man, and the man stared back, his ever-present smile transforming into a grin that crinkled his eyes endearingly.

“Well, she um… she likes… cooking?” Good one, idiot.

The florist made a humming sound as he emerged from behind the counter and began to browse the many pots of flowers to his right. Howon stood awkwardly, not sure if he should go over there too or stay put. In a few short moments, the man was back at the counter, a few long stemmed, bright flowers in his hands.

“Anthurium; otherwise known as Laceleaf,” he said, placing them on a fresh piece of wrapping paper, “They are said to signify hospitality, so will ensure your mother will have a welcoming home. Next?”

Howon looked at the man, taking in his sharp cheekbones and full lips. His eyes were cat-like and scrutinising him closely; he felt as if it was anyone else he might feel uncomfortable, but this strange florist seemed to radiate such warmth that Howon felt more relaxed than he ought to be. 

“She… never forgets a birthday or an anniversary. She always remembers things.”

Again, the florist stepped out from behind the counter, once more perusing the blooms of his shop. He returned, his hands full of small, colourful flowers.

“These are freesia; they signify thoughtfulness.” He smiled, more to himself than at Howon, “I chose yellows and reddish oranges because I think they match well with the Laceleaf, don’t you? Now only a few more choices and you’ll have a full bouquet that’s just perfect for your mother.”

Usually Howon wasn’t one for people who talked too much. He firmly believed that the less words needed, the better – much easier to explain yourself quickly and get your thoughts out there instead of peppering every sentence with unnecessary additions. But the more this florist spoke, the more a warmth spread in his chest, the more he leaned closer, the more he wanted to listen. It was the strangest thing, but at the same time felt the most natural thing.

He didn’t realise he’d been staring again until a hand gently touched his shoulder and shook him from his thoughts.

“What next?” The florist was closer now, his hand felt warm through Howon’s thin shirt.

“She makes me laugh,” He tried to look anywhere but those intense eyes, “She always used to play with me when I was a child.”

Hyacinth; for playfulness.

When Howon told the florist his mother had always been a good daughter to his grandparents, the flowers were gladiolus; for faithfulness and honour. Following the man into a greenhouse at the back of the shop, Howon told him how he hoped his mother would be well-looked after as she got older – it was something he worried about a lot. The flowers were alstroemeria or ‘Lily of the Incas’; for wealth and prosperity.

The flower shop owner knew where every flower was without a second thought, and Howon marvelled  as he reached into pots, pulling out the perfect specimens for the bouquet. Every one was placed gently on the counter, each shade of yellow, red, orange and pink complimenting the other. Howon felt that it looked like a sunset in a way, all the colours reminding him of one. 

They were stood again in the soft light of the counter and the florist was placing the flowers into a small bag of water before he suddenly let out a shocked sound. Howon jerked forward, thinking he might have cut himself – why he reacted so strongly when this man was a total stranger, he couldn’t tell, but the idea of him being hurt troubled him more than he’d care to admit. 

But there was no blood, no sign of injury. Instead, the florist had Howon locked in his gaze. 

“We forgot you.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, which flower is you!” The man said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “If it’s a bouquet from you, don’t you think you should be in it?”

Howon suddenly felt nervous, put on the spot. Choose a flower that was him? He knew nothing about flowers… Wasn’t that this guy’s job? He seemed pretty good at it, so couldn’t he choose? He looked around, thinking that maybe if he just grabbed something at random, he could get away with it.

He wasn’t sure what made him hesitate and walk back to the greenhouse. The florist didn’t stop him, just followed quietly behind, watching. There, in a large, cracked terracotta pot, was a tumbling array of pale purple five-pointed flowers that looked like stars. He smiled, pointing at them.

“Those ones. Those are me.” He said, with much more certainty than he felt.

Without a word, the owner cut some by the stem and headed back to the counter, adding them to the other flowers. Howon wondered why he was being so quiet when he had been so talkative before. He watched him work, tying the bag of water tightly to the stems, sealing it with tape, arranging the blooms, wrapping the bouquet. It was all finished in no time at all.

When it came to paying, Howon felt like he didn’t want to leave. There was something about this place – and if he was very honest with himself, something about this man – that drew him in. He thought about all the times he felt left out at work, when others joked without him, when they went out for drinks and didn’t ask him. They , called him awkward (and sometimes much meaner things when they thought he wasn’t within earshot), and he didn’t really feel like he belonged there. 

But in this little, run down flower shop with it’s bright-haired owner and it’s soft lighting and earthy smell… Howon felt suddenly at home. 

He paid by card, thanked the man and turned to leave, heaving a sigh as he noticed it was still raining outside. He had his hand on the door handle when he heard the florist speak. 

“Hoya.”

“Excuse me?” He turned back, confused.

“Hoya; that’s your flower.” 

 *

 It wasn’t raining anymore and the city finally felt as if it wasn’t constantly soaked through to the bone. The sun had even made an appearance and Howon could merit bringing a tshirt to change into after finishing work.

He wasn’t sure what made him go back. Maybe the fact that he’d been unable to stop thinking about the flower shop since his mother’s birthday. Maybe because he’d found himself wondering about the owner – whose name he had never asked for – a lot more than he should have been.

The shop was still standing, even though Howon had convinced himself it must have all been a dream, that he invented this magical little place because he was finally going nuts. But it was there, the faded green sign catching the last rays of the setting sun, which glinted off the gold letters.

He took a breath, steeling himself. For what, he didn’t know.

The bell chimed as it had before, and he looked up towards the counter. He was there again, this time his hair a shockingly white blonde, with roses in his hands as he clipped down their thorns. He smiled as Howon walked in, a beaming grin that showed off his teeth.

“Hoya!” The florist said, and Howon felt like he’d come home.