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THE LAST BOUQUET 💐

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The rain had been falling steadily since the late afternoon, drumming softly against the glass windows of the small flower shop. The streets of Seoul gleamed under the dim yellow streetlights, reflections of neon signs dancing in puddles. Inside, the warm light of the shop offered a small island of color against the gray drizzle outside. It was the year 1992, and the city moved with the quiet rhythm of a society still bound by old expectations and cautious whispers.

Outside, the rain fell in unbroken sheets, bouncing off rooftops and splashing against the narrow sidewalks. A cold wind swept through the streets, tugging at the edges of coats and umbrellas, and carrying with it the distant scent of wet asphalt and damp earth. Each gust rattled the shop’s wooden door slightly, letting in the faint hiss of the storm.

Footsteps echoed hollowly on the slick pavement, some hurried, some deliberate, but all muffled beneath the relentless patter of the rain. Streetlights cast hazy golden halos, and puddles shimmered with reflections of passing trams and the occasional taxi, their headlights cutting through the mist. The air was thick, heavy with moisture, and every inhale carried a sharp, crisp chill that made skin tingle.

Jimin crouched near a low shelf, carefully trimming the leaves of a potted chrysanthemum. His fingers were nimble and precise, moving with a gentle rhythm that made even the smallest petals look cared for. At eighteen, he was still young—soft-featured, delicate, almost feminine in appearance. His dark hair fell in soft waves around his face, brushing his cheeks as a cold breeze slipped through the slightly open door, ruffling strands gently and making him shiver just slightly. His pale skin and bright, observant eyes caught the warm light of the shop, reflecting a quiet focus as he worked.

His grandmother’s sharp voice cut across the shop.

Jimin straightened, holding the flower in his hands, and rolled his eyes.

His grandmother huffed, crossing her arms as she surveyed the shop. She had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and hands hardened from decades of tending to flower, yet there was a softness in her smile reserved just for Jimin.

Jimin chuckled, shaking his head.

Rolling his eyes again, Jimin straightened the bouquets on the counter, tucking stray leaves and stems neatly into place. He loved this part of the job—the smell of fresh flowers, the soft rustle of petals, the faint hum of life in every color. It made him forget the murmurs from neighbors and relatives, who always seemed to think a boy like him shouldn’t be doing “soft” work.

His grandmother continued, softer this time.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself.

Jimin grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

His grandmother shook her head again but laughed.

Jimin said softly, glancing at the rows of flowers lining the shelves.

Jimin's s grandmother teased, shaking her head with a laugh.

Jimin sat back on his heels for a moment, inhaling the subtle mix of roses, lilies, and carnations lingering in the air. Outside, the rain soaked the streets and turned the city quiet. He liked this calm—the kind that made the world feel small and safe, like the shop was the only place that mattered.

Jimin said, arranging a final bouquet.

Jimin's grandmother replied, suspicious as ever.

Jimin laughed, a soft, warm sound that echoed off the shelves.

He moved to the front counter, wiping it down carefully, making sure no stray leaves or petals were left behind. Every detail mattered to him. Even the little chalkboard outside, which advertised today’s specials, had been tidied and dusted. He loved these small touches, the quiet care that went into the shop.

Jimin asked, straightening up.

She replied, her voice softening.

Jimin’s heart skipped slightly.

The bell above the door jingled faintly, though no one had entered yet. Jimin glanced toward the window, seeing the dark, wet streets outside. The rain had slowed, turning into a light drizzle now, but the streets were still slick and reflective. The soft glow of streetlights made the puddles sparkle faintly.

Jimin murmured, more to himself than to his grandmother.

His grandmother chuckled.

Jimin said, smiling softly.

The old woman smiled, shaking her head.

Jimin stood for a moment, stretching his arms, taking one last look around the shop. The flowers were in neat rows, the floor swept, petals and leaves tucked away. It was a small world, but it was his world.

He walked to the counter, glancing at the clock above the door—8:00 PM. Time to lock up.

Jimin said, tying his jacket tight around himself.

She asked, squinting at him.

Jimin teased, giving her a playful wink.

She said with a mock sternness, though her eyes sparkled with warmth.

Jimin said confidently.

The soft sound of the rain outside was almost hypnotic. Jimin moved slowly around the shop, making sure the doors were locked, the lights dimmed, and the flowers secure. He hummed softly to himself, the tune light and carefree, a little rebellion against the seriousness of the world outside.

Even on nights like this, when the streets were empty and the city felt cold, Jimin’s heart was warm. This small shop, these flowers, his grandmother’s soft admonishments—they were all a part of him.

He glanced once more at the fogged windows, his reflection faint against the droplets of rain.

Jimin whispered.

For now, though, it was quiet. Peaceful. Safe. And for Jimin, that was enough.

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It was the next evening, almost eight o’clock, and the shop had fallen into its familiar hush. Outside, the rain had returned, steady as it had been the night before, tapping against the glass windows in a familiar rhythm. Seoul’s streets gleamed once more beneath the pale yellow glow of streetlamps, reflections of neon signs stretching across the wet pavement like painted ribbons.

Jimin stood behind the counter, carefully brushing fallen petals into his palm. His grandmother had already gone to the back, disappearing into the small apartment attached to the shop, leaving him to finish the closing routine alone. The faint scent of wet soil and blossoms lingered in the air, wrapping the little shop in warmth against the cold drizzle outside

He glanced toward the door without meaning to. The bell above it hung silent, the glass pane fogged slightly from the damp air. His dark hair shifted with the draft sneaking through the frame, a cool breeze brushing across his cheeks.

It was almost the same as yesterday—rain, quiet, closing time. But Jimin felt something different in the air tonight. As if he was unconsciously expecting the door to open again.

The bell above the shop door jingled softly, cutting through the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows. Jimin looked up from the last bouquet he was arranging, his soft fingers brushing gently over the petals. A cold breeze from the slightly ajar door ruffled his dark hair, and he shivered just slightly, eyes bright as they focused on the figure entering.

The man stepped in, folding his umbrella with precise, deliberate movements. His long coat clung to his broad shoulders, droplets of rain still streaking the fabric. Sharp, chiseled features, a strong jaw, and eyes that seemed almost… piercing—dragon-like, as Jimin’s heart involuntarily thought.

The young man looked straight at him, holding Jimin’s gaze with an intensity that made his chest skip a beat. He seemed calm, composed, almost untouchable, yet the way he observed the shop and its flowers carried a subtle curiosity.

Jimin’s mind raced, then recognition clicked. Kim Namjoon. The name floated in his thoughts as vividly as the flowers around him. He had seen him in a magazine, the glossy pages his father had bought months ago. The youngest journalist in Seoul to gain a name for himself, only twenty-five, respected and admired by many.

And now he was standing in front of Jimin, staring at him, for longer than a polite moment should last.

Swallowing the sudden nervousness, Jimin bowed deeply, ninety degrees, careful to keep his back straight.

Jimin said, his voice soft but respectful, carrying a hint of warmth.

Namjoon’s lips curved into the faintest nod.

His voice was calm, measured, almost deliberate, each word precise.

Jimin replied, straightening and adjusting his jacket. His heart fluttered despite himself.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked toward the rows of flowers, then back to Jimin.

He paused, adding quietly.

Jimin said immediately, moving with fluid grace toward the vase where the white chrysanthemums stood. He picked the freshest stems, brushing gently against the petals as he gathered them. His hands worked almost automatically, but his mind was racing, stealing glances at Namjoon as he wrapped the bouquet.

Jimin asked quietly, tying the blooms together.

Namjoon hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding.

Jimin fastened the ribbon with care and held the bouquet out.

Namjoon accepted it with both hands, careful not to crush the petals.

Namjoon reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a few crisp notes. He extended the money toward Jimin. Their fingers brushed lightly as Jimin accepted the money with both hands, bowing his head in thanks.

Namjoon said simply, voice calm but carrying a subtle weight, like a quiet acknowledgement of Jimin’s care.

Jimin replied, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.

A short, thoughtful pause hung in the air. Namjoon glanced toward the door, then back at Jimin.

Namjoon said casually.

Jimin whispered, heart still fluttering as he watched the tall figure step back into the rain. The umbrella snapped open with a soft click, and soon Namjoon’s form was swallowed by the gray, glistening streets of Seoul.

Jimin leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His hair still stirred by the breeze, he whispered to himself, almost in disbelief.

The shop was quiet now, the soft scent of fresh chrysanthemums filling the air. Jimin shook his head with a soft laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.

Jimin murmured, though a tiny spark of curiosity had taken root, refusing to fade.

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