The shrill sound of her phone ringing and vibrating on the nightstand abruptly pulled her from the depths of slumber, jolting her into a hazy awareness. As she stirred beneath her tangled sheets, she instinctively reached out, her fingertips brushing against the cool fabric before extending further toward the nightstand. In her groggy state, her hand collided with a few scattered items, toppling an old alarm clock that she had lovingly purchased at an antique store for half of its price, its ticking long since silenced.

As she fumbled for her phone, the vase she had placed nearby teetered precariously, finally succumbing to gravity and crashing to the floor in a shower of glass. The sound of shattering porcelain punctuated her senses, awakening her fully. Blinking against the sudden rush of daylight that filled the room, she grabbed her phone, the device feeling unfamiliar and heavy in her palm.

As she stared at the screen, her heart raced upon noticing the five missed calls from her mother. A wave of panic washed over her, mingling with guilt as memories of their last, less-than-pleasant conversation resurfaced. The ache in her chest deepened, a painful reminder of the unresolved tension that lingered between them. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the weight of the conversation that she instinctively knew awaited her.

Why is she suddenly calling me? What could that woman possible want? She said that I am not part of the family so that means that I’m no longer daughter!

Armed with a broom and dustpan, she carefully swept up the shattered glass that littered the floor. As she maneuvered the broom, her eyes caught the glint of a particularly sharp shard. With cautious hands, she reached down, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash, ensuring that the area was safe once more.

Ah, I prick myself!

As she glanced down at the jagged cut on her finger, a rush of instinct took over, and she found herself pressing it to her lips, a fleeting attempt to soothe the sting. With a sense of urgency, she hurried to the bathroom, her heart racing, and crouched down beneath the cabinet, rummaging through the jumble of odds and ends in search of a bandaid. Frustration washed over her as she recalled she had left the supplies in her old apartment, the memory of the move still fresh in her mind.

Suddenly, the sharp jingle of the doorbell pierced through her thoughts, pulling her attention away from her self-care quest. With a resigned sigh, she made her way to the little greenhouse nestled within the building—a space she had cultivated with love, filled with vibrant plants and fragrant blooms. As she entered, she spotted him standing there again, the same man from the other day. A part of her wanted to explain that this was not a flourishing shop, that the plants were not for sale, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she continued to wrap a piece of tissue around her injured finger, a makeshift bandage, her resolve wavering in his presence.

“Welcome back, mister,” she says with a warm smile.

He stormed into the shop, impatience etched across his drenched face, demanding another order of flowers for his beloved wife. The rain had soaked through his clothes, leaving them clinging to his skin and forming small puddles on the polished wooden floor. With an exasperated sigh, he hurled cash at the shopkeeper, the bills scattering like fallen leaves.

“ Yes, sir.”

She watched, head bowed, as she carefully picked up the crumpled notes from the floor, resembling a humble peasant girl in that moment. There was a twinge of hurt in her chest; the harshness of his tone and the disdainful way he had treated her felt like a slap. Yet, she reminded herself that his anger stemmed from a place of pain. To him, she was merely a stranger, a fleeting figure in his storm of troubles.

As she arranged the bright blooms, a sharp pain throbbed at the site of her reopened cut, the result of a long day’s work. Yet, despite the discomfort and the overwhelming disdain aimed her way, her resolve remained steadfast. She believed wholeheartedly in the power of kindness, a simple gesture that could ripple out and affect someone’s day positively, no matter how difficult they may be.

She understood that everyone carries their burdens, each person grappling with their own struggles. If there was even a small way she could make a difference in his day, she would willingly overlook her own feelings, sacrificing her discomfort to ensure that another soul could find a moment of joy amidst their chaos.

I don’t need your money, sir,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “If you want the flowers to last longer, you should trim the stems and remove the lower leaves. Keep them away from direct light and heat, change the water every day, and be sure to pluck out any wilted blooms as soon as you notice them.”

With a warm smile, she carefully stacked the cash inside a crisp white envelope and handed it to him along with the freshly arranged bouquet. The vibrant petals glowed with life, a contrast to the impending storm in his demeanor. But instead of accepting the delicate offering, he abruptly snatched the bouquet from her grasp, the flowers rustling harshly against each other. With a fuming glare, he stormed out of the shop, the door swinging shut with a forceful slam, echoing the frustration that had filled the room.

She grasped the frayed handle of the mop, her fingers trembling slightly, as she swabbed away the glistening puddle on the hardwood floor. Outside, the rain pounded against the roof, creating a rhythmic drumbeat that echoed throughout the room. Each crash of thunder sent jolts of electricity through her spine, and the flash of lightning made her heart race.

The sudden chime of the doorbell pierced through her frazzled nerves, causing her to jump and let out a startled scream. She turned to the door, her breath caught in her throat, but when she caught sight of the familiar figure from earlier, a wave of relief washed over her.

“ What are you doing here at such a hour?” she ask.

Placing a hand on her chest, she tried to quell the rapid fluttering of her heart, which felt as though it might burst free at any moment. For a brief moment, she had thought fear would consume her, but the presence of the man brought a sense of calm amidst the chaos.

"My wife scolded me for my rude behavior and insisted that I apologize," he said, clutching a first aid kit in his hand. He gestured for her to sit down, concern etched on his face. Despite her initial hesitation, wanting to manage on her own, he gently encouraged her to let him help. Carefully, he opened the kit, revealing tubes of ointment and fresh bandages. As he applied the ointment to her wound, he blew softly on it, hoping to soothe the sting. He noticed her flinch at the touch, a small wince that tugged at his heart, so he took extra care when placing the bandage over the injured area.

"I could see your finger bleeding onto the tissue," he continued, his voice tinged with worry. "My wife's health hasn't been great lately, so I guess I've been a bit on edge." He got off his knees, rising to his full height, and for a moment, he contemplated taking the first aid kit back home. However, he ultimately set it gently on her lap. "You need this more than I do," he said softly. "I kept it around because my wife is prone to getting hurt, but now she's in the hospital, so it seems this equipment could be of better use to you."

As she drifts into the depths of her thoughts, vivid memories from her childhood begin to surface, transporting her back to the days of innocence when she was a tiny toddler. She can almost hear the echoes of her cries, the sound of her distress when she would skinned her knee or scraped her elbow, those familiar injuries she referred to as her "boo-boos." She vividly recalls how, in those moments of pain, her mother would kneel beside her, gently blowing on her wounds with a tender breath, as if to chase away the hurt.

Tears, unbidden, continue to flow down her cheeks, a silent acknowledgment of the bittersweet nostalgia washing over her. Her mother’s embrace during those childhood moments radiated warmth—a soothing balm that was nothing less than the sweetest and purest form of love.

In her youthful innocence, she had a habit of affectionately calling her mother “Mommy, you’re a sweet flower,” her voice a melodic mix of affection and admiration. Together, they shared countless adventures, their laughter intertwining like the threads of a tapestry, creating an unbreakable bond.

However, as the years unfurled, life took its course, and the two once inseparable souls found themselves drifting apart. The echo of silence in their once-vibrant connection now makes her heart ache with a profound longing. She often insists to herself that she is okay, trying to mask the truth, yet deep down, she knows that the reality is far from it; she is not okay at all.

“ Oh, I am so sorry. Thank you very much! I appreciate it, Mister.”With a trembling voice, she uttered an apology, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she quickly wiped away the tears that had escaped her eyes. The burden of old memories settled heavily on her heart, and she hadn’t anticipated that such a seemingly insignificant event could unravel the delicate threads of her past.” I will take good care of the kit, please thank your wife for me.”

He held a crinkling bag of assorted snacks in his hand, a tempting assortment meant for his solitary indulgence later in the evening, accompanied by a drink. As he approached her, however, he gently set the bag down beside her, a subtle gesture of empathy. “I picked this up for myself,” he said, his voice softening, “but it looks like you’re going through some tough times.”

I thought he was an Asshole....He’s kind of nice

As she watched him walk away from the building, a wave of contemplation washed over her. Her gaze fixated on the bandage adorning her hand, a comforting reminder of the care someone had shown her, stirring a warm tingle in her chest. It was a reassuring thought, knowing there were others out there willing to look out for her. She found herself wondering if they could all forge friendships together, forming a circle of support.

Just then, her stomach audibly protested, prompting her to open a bag of chips nearby. As she rummaged through the contents, her eyes landed on a notice addressed to Dam Bi, concerning his wife. A feeling of hesitation gripped her; she didn’t want to invade anyone's privacy, so she gently set the note on the counter, a silent acknowledgment of its presence.

At that moment, her phone started to vibrate, breaking the stillness in the air. When she glanced at the screen, she saw her mother’s name flash before her. A wave of anxiety washed over her as she picked up the call, her heart feeling heavy in her chest as she braced herself for the conversation ahead.

“ Hello, Ma.”