“Jinjin?”

Soojin looks up from her book. In the entrance of her room, Shuhua is peeking in. “Hmm?” 

“You like flowers right?” The question is benign. 

“I do.” Soojin replies, eyes owlish. “Wh—” Her words are cut off when Shuhua dashes in and, suddenly, all Soojin sees is red. Shuhua is gone by the time she recovers, the red chrysanthemum the only evidence of the abrupt ambush. 

The chrysanthemum is only the start. 

Shuhua ambushes her backstage after the last concert of their European leg. She finds her before a radio broadcast in New York. Then there is the time in Taipei when Shuhua drags her, ungodly early, out of the hotel and down the winding back streets to the market. 

Strolling through the flower market at first light is an experience like no other. 

Soojin recognises some of the flowers. Daisies, pink carnations, asters, and dahlias.

Then there are others she takes back to her room and, in the early hours, scours through the Internet for answers. There is a purple hibiscus, myrtle, blue and red salvia, and something called yarrow. 

Shuhua never says anything more than here or for you when she presents each flower. 

At first, Soojin thinks nothing of it. Flowers are flowers. It isn’t until she can’t pick them out from the typical selection - the roses, the peonies, the tulips - that she realises there may be something more to each flower than she initially thought. 

The Lang