RED ROSE

CHAPTER 7

Kyoto had a quiet rhythm in the early morning, soft enough that I could hear my own thoughts over the distant hum of the streets. I wandered through the narrow alleys, past the wooden shutters of small cafés and the occasional vendor arranging fresh vegetables for the day. Even in these familiar streets, the city felt alive, carrying stories I would never know. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself, though the air was mild, and let my eyes drift over the soft sunlight glinting on the street.

I found myself slowing near a small bridge, leaning against the railing and staring at the water below. The river moved lazily, reflecting the buildings and the cherry trees lining the bank. A petal floated by, caught in the current, and I imagined it was someone else’s thought drifting into the world, impossible to reach but somehow present. My mind wandered, as it often did these days, back to the shop and the man who had stepped into my life so suddenly. Yuya.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. I had no idea where he came from, what he did, or why he had chosen my shop of all places. And yet, his presence lingered in my chest like a soft pressure I couldn’t ignore. For the first time, I wondered not only why he appeared, but how little I really knew about him.

I had tried, in the quiet moments after he left last time, to look him up. Maybe there was a social media account, some digital footprint to give me a clue, a sign, anything. But the search returned nothing. No posts, no accounts, no comments, nothing. It was as if he existed only in the physical world, and nowhere else. The thought sent a shiver through me.

“Nothing is ever this clean,” I muttered to myself. “No trace at all…”

I tried to convince myself it was stress, that my mind was reading too much into it. I had been awake late last night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every gesture, every word, every glance. Of course, my imagination was exaggerating. Everyone had secrets, yes, but a complete absence online? That was unusual.

I sighed and shook my head, stepping back onto the street. “I’m just tired. Too much work. Too many debts. That’s all it is,” I whispered, trying to reassure myself.

Despite my attempts to dismiss the thought, it lingered like a shadow. What did he do for work? Where did he live? And why did he choose my shop, of all places? The questions buzzed quietly, insisting on attention even as I tried to focus on the streets of Kyoto around me.

By the time I reached the shop, the streets were bustling with the soft chatter of morning. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, inhaling the familiar mix of soil, petals, and faint traces of dried leaves. The shop felt both comforting and confining, the weight of its history pressing against my shoulders. I moved through the aisles, straightening a vase here, adjusting a bouquet there, but my mind was elsewhere.

The bell jingled as I crossed to the counter, setting a few notes in order. I sighed, running a hand over the smooth wood. “Focus,” I muttered. “Just focus on the work.”

And yet, as I prepared the morning orders, my thoughts drifted back to Yuya. I replayed the way he had moved, the calm in his eyes, the faint smile that made it impossible not to notice him. He had said so little about himself, yet the things he did say, the way he lingered near the roses, left me feeling both curious and uneasy.

I picked up a single red rose, tracing the edge of its petals with my thumb. The deep color was almost shocking in the morning light. I imagined it in Yuya’s hands, the weight of it like a presence I could feel even when he wasn’t there. I almost laughed at myself for thinking about him this much, but I couldn’t stop. The thought of him had become a constant, threading through my day no matter what I did.

I paused for a moment, staring at my phone on the counter. I could have tried to search again, maybe look for something I missed, but I resisted. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious, I was but pressing too hard might make me feel worse. Stress, that’s all. I told myself I was imagining things, reading too much into his absence from the digital world.

A knock at the door startled me, and I looked up, half expecting a regular customer, but the street outside was still busy with early shoppers. I shook my head. “Not yet,” I whispered.

I returned to the counter, arranging a set of tulips for an order, but the rhythm of the task felt hollow. My hands moved automatically, but my mind kept circling back to Yuya. Who he was, where he came from, why he had appeared in my life. The questions buzzed without answer, and the more I tried to ignore them, the more insistent they became.

As I worked, I spoke quietly to myself. “Why do you linger like this? Why now?” The words sounded absurd in the empty shop, but saying them aloud gave them weight. It was as if speaking them made the thought real.

The bell jingled, and my heart leapt.

He was there.

Yuya stepped inside, as composed and striking as always. The way he moved made it seem like he belonged everywhere, and yet only here. His dark hair shone in the sunlight, and his eyes met mine with that calm steadiness that always left me off balance.

“Good morning,” he said, and the words were simple, but they carried weight.

“Good morning,” I replied, forcing my voice to sound normal. I wanted to ask where he had been, why he had not appeared earlier, but I didn’t. Instead, I gestured toward the roses. “Your order is ready.”

Yuya stepped closer, scanning the bouquets. “They look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my hands steady. My fingers brushed a stem, and I realized my pulse had quickened. “You always like the red ones, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes. There’s something about them. They feel complete.”

I frowned. “Complete?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “They make sense.”

I wrapped the stems into a neat bouquet, the paper crackling softly under my fingers. “And you never explain what that means,” I muttered.

“Some things are better felt than explained,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

I paused, trying to match his calm. “You do leave me curious,” I admitted. “And uneasy.”

Yuya’s lips curved faintly. “Curiosity and unease are not bad companions.”

I shook my head. “They are when they won’t leave.”

He took a step closer, and for a moment, the space between us seemed charged. “Then let them stay,” he said quietly. “I am here now. That is what matters.”

I tried to find a response, something clever or witty, but none came. Instead, I handed him the bouquet. Our fingers brushed slightly, and I felt a warmth spread through me, sharp and sudden.

“You’ll come again tomorrow?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” he said, turning toward the door. “I will be here.”

The bell jingled softly as he left, and I watched him go, the weight of absence settling immediately in the shop. I leaned against the counter, staring at the empty doorway, trying to catch my breath.

“Who are you?” I whispered to myself. The question sounded foolish, but it was impossible to stop asking.

The silence answered only with the faint scent of roses.

Later that night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling. The memory of him, the way he had looked at the flowers, the calm in his eyes, haunted me. I twisted under the covers, hugging a pillow, feeling the ache of curiosity, longing, and something else I couldn’t name knot in my chest.

I whispered into the dark, “I don’t even know you, and yet… you linger.”

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. Sleep came slowly, each minute stretching as I turned it over, again and again. Yuya’s presence lingered even in his absence, and for the first time, the roses in the shop no longer felt like merchandise. They felt like a connection, fragile but impossible to ignore.

And I knew that even with the small unease I had dismissed as stress, something about Yuya was quietly off. But I pushed the thought aside. For now, it was enough that he had come.