Seoul’s Public Botanical Gardens are open from 5am to one in the morning. The eastern grounds are oceans of lush green, dotted with Kousa trees which limbs spread fitting moderate family gatherings. It swarms with festivals and picnics and the occasional business meeting. The north grounds look like a maze from above. A maze of beauty. Flowers bloom with such bright everlasting colours that do not compare to what scientist say are in the skies. The fauna leaks overwhelming beauty, powerful pangs colour scattered onto a garden of dreams. Tourist come and go, passing these somewhat inept ornaments, camera’s slung around their aching red necks and heavily beaded with sweat. The western grounds are home to the lakes and locals. Wildlife blooms from under its clear waters, creating beautiful cascading ripples and soft waves. The teenagers stay here. They dip the sore white feet into the springs and sigh in relief, complaining of their corrupt schools and packed schedules. Most of them sit there contemplating on their future. They are too eager to live with their stubborn young blood.

Yixing works in the southern grounds. It’s rather small and quiet, compared to the rest of the gardens, only dabbed with several locals and sometimes a group of family tourists. It’s the Portuguese hedge that separates the half acre of land from the others, and Yixing has unsuccessfully and rather foolishly protested to cut it down, supposing he’d get larger pay from extra visitors. 

He’d forgotten that being a gardener was a volunteer job.