Han Seo-jin had always been the type to close doors quietly.
Arguments ended with silence, not shouts. Breakups came with apologies and clean exits. Even her resignation from her previous firm had been accompanied by an orderly file of handovers and one final bow.
So when she found herself standing outside the florist's shop the next evening, holding a white plastic takeout bag with two portions of kimchi stew and a half-apology, she questioned her own sanity.
The plan had been simple: work, eat, sleep.
But today hadn't gone to plan.
Instead, her mind had wandered during her meeting. She'd sketched a flower into the margin of her notes. A lisianthus. She had to Google the name afterward to be sure. It annoyed her, how easily her thoughts returned to that little shop and the man who said things like, "Some buildings are beautiful because of the light they let in."
It was the kind of phrase that lingered—like a scent caught in your scarf.
She shifted the bag in her hand, awkwardly trying to balance pride and chicken stock.
The shop door opened before she could knock.
Ha-joon blinked in surprise. "Wow. Two visits in two days? At this rate, I'll have to start charging rent."
Seo-jin held out the bag. "I brought food. I had extra."
A beat passed.
He took it slowly, as if afraid it might disappear. "This smells amazing."
"I didn't cook it," she said quickly. "It's from a shop near the station."
"Still." He stepped aside. "Come in. I'll grab bowls."
The shop was warmer than she remembered, or maybe she was just more aware of it now. The hanging bulbs cast a cozy amber glow across the leaves. He led her toward the back where the tea table still sat—only this time, it was surrounded by seed catalogs and a pair of muddy boots.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, clearing space. "The greenhouse heater's broken again, so I've been hauling everything in here at night."
Seo-jin sat carefully, hands folded in her lap.
As he returned with mismatched bowls and metal chopsticks, she noticed something: a small photo frame tucked near the register.
It showed Ha-joon with a girl—smiling, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of a tulip field. The girl's face was bright, her eyes closed in mid-laughter. Ha-joon looked different in the photo. Less tired. Less alone.
She didn't ask. She didn't need to.
"Did you always want to be an architect?" he asked, as he scooped rice into bowls.
"I used to draw buildings when I was six," she said. "Once, I redesigned our apartment with slides instead of stairs. My mother said I was wasting time. My father called me practical."
"Sounds like a childhood dream that actually happened."
"It did. I worked hard. I got in. I got promoted. And now…"
She trailed off, unsure how to finish.
Ha-joon didn't press.
"Did your parents approve of this?" she asked, motioning toward the shop.
He laughed once. "No. My mother still thinks this is a phase. My father passed before I changed careers. I think he would've disapproved too. But…"
"But?"
He looked down at his stew. "It's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm healing."
The silence returned, not heavy this time, but thoughtful. Like shared breath.
Can I ask you something?" Seo-jin said, surprising even herself.
"Of course."
"That letter. The one I brought you. Why didn't you open it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stood and walked over to the counter. He pulled open the drawer and lifted the envelope, still sealed.
"It's from her," he said quietly. "Min-ah. My fiancée. She wrote it before she died. Her sisterfound it recently while packing up old boxes."
Seo-jin's breath caught.
"She must've meant for me to find it eventually. But I'm scared to read it. Scared it'll say goodbye too perfectly. Like a period at the end of something I'm not ready to finish."
She understood more than she wanted to.
Her last relationship had ended with no letter, no explanation—just silence and distance, the way cold people end things. But that too had been final. And lonely.
"I think," Seo-jin said slowly, "sometimes we hold onto pain because it's the last thing we have left of someone."
Ha-joon looked up. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the shop faded. The world felt smaller, warmer, like they were inside the center of a snow globe no one had shaken in years.
Then a loud crash broke the spell.
They both turned to see a clay pot on the floor, shattered.
A stray cat, skinny and wet, had pushed open the back door and knocked it over.
"Yah—again?" Ha-joon muttered, standing.
Seo-jin watched as he carefully picked up the broken pieces and sighed. "This cat keeps sneaking in. I don't even know its name."
He paused, then looked at her. "What would you name it?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Why me?"
"Because it broke something in your presence. That has to mean something."
She thought for a moment, then said, "Glass."
"Glass?"
"It's fragile. Sharp when broken. But if you melt it down… you can reshape it into something stronger."
Ha-joon stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Glass it is."
The cat meowed once, as if in agreement, then curled into a ball beside the heater.
Seo-jin glanced at the clock. "I should go."
"Wait." He stood quickly, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a small, delicate flower.
A white ranunculus.
"For your desk," he said. "They help with creative blocks."
She took it hesitantly. "Do they?"
He smiled. "It's not scientific. But I believe some beauty is stubborn enough to force itself into your thoughts."
Seo-jin held the flower like it was something sacred.
Then she left.
That night, as she worked late into the early hours, the ranunculus sat beside her laptop—soft, white, and defiantly beautiful.
She didn't redraw the tower again. She began a new sketch. One with curves. With light.
And when she finally fell asleep at her desk, the flower stood tall in a glass cup of water, untouched by time.