Chapter Text
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign;
The daisy never dies!from The Daisy by James Montgomery, 1806
The day his grandmother died, Seonghwa planted mint around her heirloom red roses.
As a child, he'd dreamt about doing it many times. He'd spent days researching all the ways he could destroy the bush she worked so hard to keep flourishing, while sitting in his room upstairs with nothing but the gardening books she forced upon him and a perfect view of that perfect symbol of everything he would never have.
Despite her, and despite himself… he does love gardening. He loves being able to nurture something and watch it grow. He looks back on some of the memories fondly, reading those books out of resentment and finding seeds of peace and joy within the pages.
But even after taking over her nursery as she'd expected of him, he still hates roses.
He won't remain here long enough to watch them wither, slowly dying without their pollinators and having their nutrients stolen by the very plants keeping them away... but knowing they would without intervention is enough. It has to be, because he doesn't want to live in this house anymore. He never really had in the first place.
He has spent most of the past week since her death boxing up her valuable collections to send away to be sold at auction. Today, he's finally come to his childhood room. He'd put it off, not because of any sort of lingering fear or anger, but because there is none.
The heavy oak door, painted pristine white to match the rest of the prissy old house, is the same as every other in all ways but one. Faint divots under the paint, four in total, evenly spaced. The place where the bracket which held the lock on the outside once was.
He pulls the door silently open and feels empty as he looks at the barren space with walls painted a fading blush that once matched the bright hue of a stargazer lily. A familiar floor to ceiling white bookshelf stands patiently on the right, and a twin bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket sleeps to the left.
He goes to the bookshelf and looks over the sun-faded titles. He smiles wistfully as his eyes roll over the few ravaged books about caring for roses, spines so worn the titles are illegible. Tugging them out of place, he looks them over reverently before placing them gently into the cardboard box he brought with him, his name neatly penned on the outside so it doesn't get mixed in with the things he is sending away.
He spends some time carefully packing away the books, occasionally flipping through one as he recalls some distant thing or another he wants to remember exactly. By the time they're all in the box, the sun has moved to tell him it's around noon, shining proudly through the large picture window. There is only one text that remains.
He looks to the other side of the room. The maple upright dresser handpainted with yellow stars and white daisies, his birth flower, stands next to the bed. One of the only things left of his mother in this house. He scarcely remembers her anymore. She is only a sweep of dark hair and the scent of fresh cut flowers and vanilla.
He corners the dresser and dutifully opens the bottom drawer, pulling out neatly folded sweaters until he finds the one he is looking for. Bright blue, just a little too dark to be the color of the sky. His favorite one which he was never allowed to wear, simply because he chose it himself. He unfolds it and pulls his delicate prize from inside, the title still a comfort in simple black print.
'Flowers and History: A Compendium of Meanings'
He opens the plain white paperback cover and reads the typed dedication for the millionth time in his life;
'For my shining star.'
He smiles. Pulling on the ill-fitting and defiant blue sweater, he settles in the chair near the open window to read it through just as he had countless times before. This time, pleasant yellow daylight shines on the pages instead of the secret white of the moon, and the unpleasant blend of emotion is gone as he glances out the window at the too-proud red roses.
He gets lost in the manuscript until his eyes grow heavy, until his head is bobbing with the effort to stay awake. He realizes, eyes fluttering, that he can simply drift away without fear of being found like this. He is alone in the house, so he lets himself fall into a pleasant dream of fields and flowers, of love and laughter.
He wakes with the ringing echo of a lilting giggle he doesn't recognize.
The window is still open, now to the cool night air and the shy crescent moon winking at him. He breathes deep, at peace after a moment of disorientation. He pulls his sleeves down to cuddle into them further, then realizes his hands are empty.
He sits up, assuming his beloved book has fallen to the floor.
It's gone.