The Unread Letter

A cluster of flowers swayed in the silent night wind, bathed in moonlight and the dim glow of streetlamps at the corner of the city. The gloom was palpable, though the blooms still clung to a melancholic beauty. Among these unfortunate beauties, tucked softly in an urban alleyway, sat a flower shop that possessed a profoundly artistic flair. It was beautiful enough, yet the irony of this dreary city never truly needed it. Indeed, even beneath the yellowish, dim light, it was glaringly obvious that this place did not carry the air of a flower shop at all. Rather, it felt like a coffin maker's—an ironic paradox.

A wooden signboard read: Open when the stars converse, an antithesis to the very nature of a flower shop. Although the wooden board was fraught with beauty, a mystical aura clung to it. Painted upon it were dark-hued flowers with faded patterns. It perched awkwardly at the front of the shop. Yet, it was beautiful.

The building was eccentric, bearing a dark, classical design. The frosted windows felt intimidating, holding no reflections within them. There was only a sliver of light that offered no warmth. Yearning often drew people here, even if just to browse. Everyone who entered would feel that indescribable beauty; no one could quite explain the wooden racks bearing potted plants with drooping flowers that somehow still harbored the essence of life. As if the flowers were still fighting to live—beauty in vulnerability. Perhaps that was what the patrons sought.

The distinct scent of soil emanated an uncanny air, akin to a freshly dug grave. The first inhalation would carry you through the charm of a pessimistic fate; the second would drag you back to bitter reality. The deeper you breathed, the more the floral fragrance dominated. It was said that every soul drew out the scent of the flower they needed, even if it wasn't what they wanted. When you were grieving, the scent of Myosotis or Chrysanthemum would burst forth, overpowering the rest. This eccentricity sometimes only attracted humans searching for meaning, and it was this exact charm that reduced the flower shop to nothing more than a peculiar haven for spiritual recreation.

Right in the gloomy corner of the shop sat an old desk where Nara welcomed and served guests. Her presence was as inconspicuous as the dozens of flowers surrounding her. She seemed like an empty flowerpot—necessary, yet unimportant. A manifestation of emptiness implied by the look in her eyes. Her pitch-black eyes appeared heavy yet profound; not large, but with a gaze vast enough to peer into the flowers and the deepest selves of her patrons, offering insight into the meaning behind a bouquet. She had dark, somber hair that fell just above her shoulders, slightly tousled but never messy. She always wore muted colors, seemingly unwilling to disrupt the bizarre beauty of her shop, hoping patrons would not focus on her, but solely on the blooms. Nara never smiled, but she wasn't gloomy. She was rigid—not out of sorrow, but from a prolonged silence.

Ink stains lingered on the tips of her slender fingers—not because she was an artist, but because she loved to write. Her deep gaze constantly sought meaning in every arrival; that unsmiling face was used to absorb the pain from her customers' gazes, and every stroke of her pen carved the longing out of every tear. Nara was an astute observer; to her, humans were no different from flowers, possessing a thousand meanings. Just like the flowers, every arrival always brought a story. And she loved writing them all down—not for anyone else. Only for herself.

Yet, something had been slightly different for Nara over the past few months. The furrowing of her brow matched the ink that had been stalled for months on end. It wasn’t literally strange; Nara merely saw the same gloomy old man every single day. He would just stare blankly at the room from the corner of the shop, amidst the bustling crowd and the empty vastness. To Nara, even that wasn't particularly odd. What perplexed her was that there was nothing to write about this old man. Her pen seemed restrained by the power of ambiguity. For a moment, she wanted to write about his hollow loneliness, but just as quickly, the idea was shattered by contradictory reactions. A faint smile, a spontaneous burst of laughter, a melancholic weep, a bewildered frown—all of it collected onto a frail, worn-out canvas.

One day, Nara assumed the old man was simply a bit out of his mind. She decided to divert her attention; for her, there were still many fascinating patrons to write about. Just as she resolved this in her mind, the old man slowly hobbled toward her. He gazed at Nara for a moment with an ambiguous expression—neither fully a smile nor entirely sorrowful. His thin eyebrows arched softly, framed by a gaze just as heavy as Nara's, but far more clouded. Not completely dark, as a flicker of light still danced within it. Many of his teeth were indeed missing, but his posture didn't give the impression of absolute frailty. To Nara, perhaps he was a former soldier in his past; his hunched stance didn't necessarily convey weakness. Trembling, he sat on the chair facing Nara's old desk.

"The whispers tell me," the old man said, his voice slow and faltering. His intonation was poor, but Nara could still understand him. "You, child, are an awkward observer."

The raspy, broken voice echoed throughout the empty room. Nara hesitated for a moment, but she felt a gentle nudge amidst her own inner silence. Nara cleared her throat. "And what does that mean?"

"Are you not as mad as I am—" he paused for a breath. "Look at me, I am also a skilled observer."

Nara immediately froze. How could he know? she thought. "I'm impressed, sir. What exactly are these whispers saying?" she replied.

The old man sighed, then smiled. A trace of bitterness lingered there. "I am merely an observer, child. I am not adept at explaining," his faint voice was barely audible. "Honestly, you provide an intriguing arena of attraction here. I feel at home."

"I don't understand," Nara said. Indeed, to her, flowers were mediums of feeling. Every meaning drawn from their language provided a concrete image of their owners, the buyers. She realized this place was merely an arena of attractions spinning like a Ferris wheel. From the top, so many silenced meanings could be seen.

"You understand," he replied. Then, with great effort, the old man stood up and left without another word.

It crossed Nara's mind that he was an entity just like her. A shrewd observer, a more sensitive soul. Even in this silence, he could still observe; what kind of being was he, then? His medium wasn't bound by physical form, but he could read the nuances. It was like a manifestation of the blurred lines between reality and speculation. But Nara didn't dwell on it too much; to her, the old man was just an Anomaly in her reality.

A year passed for Nara, and her life remained the same as before. Her passion was still tethered to writing letters about the visitors and patrons; she relished it. She became even more skilled at it—a patron's very first step into the shop was enough for her to weave a story onto her sheets of paper. Nara remained an agile observer.

The conversation with the old man occasionally flashed through her mind. The memory frequently surfaced because, the day after that encounter, the old man never returned. It wasn't strange at first; occasionally, Nara reasoned that the old man had simply lost to time. No one ever beat time, in her eyes. But that was no longer the issue; she still needed to live for tomorrow. And writing was her life.

Amidst her busy routine of serving and writing, the faint creak of the door caught her ear. The tapping of a wooden cane echoed through the room. Nara glanced briefly in its direction. Instantly, she was stunned as the old man returned after a year of absence. This time, he looked even more frail, yet his face was much brighter than before. His purely white hair was slicked back neatly beneath a fedora, a genuine smile played among the wrinkles of his skin, and his eyes were no longer clouded. A ray of light greeted Nara gently.

Standing right in front of her, the old man smiled. "Good evening. I think I am ready," he said.

"Evening. What do you mean, sir?" Nara replied, bewildered, her eyes staring deeply at him.

The old man nodded slowly. "I want you to prepare me White Lilies. Can you?" he continued.

The moment those words left his lips, his feelings and his stories painted themselves as vividly as the most detailed journal entry. Everything was laid bare through that order; Nara could finally read it all.

"I'm glad you can read it all, child," the old man said with a sincere smile—the first of its kind Nara had ever seen. To her, no smile had ever felt so genuine. "I am ready to be seen."

Nara tried to look strong as the old man seemingly "narrated" his life. His emotions seemed to merge with hers, but the story was too long to be written down. Everything felt complex and chaotic, yet a common thread tied it together. Nara's mind worked to meticulously encrypt the story, while her hands wove the old man's floral arrangement together.

When the arrangement was neatly assembled, Nara wrapped the bottom in plastic. But the story wasn't quite finished yet. "Here you go, sir."

"Thank you, child." The old man tipped his hat briefly and took the flowers into his grasp. "I know it is inappropriate, but I wrote something for you." The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded into thirds.

Hesitantly, Nara took it and thanked him. "Alright, I'll accept this. Thank you for caring," Nara said softly.

"No need, child." The old man handed her a few coins and hobbled away.

Puzzled, Nara unfolded the paper, intending to read it. Never once had she received anything from a patron other than money and the stories she carved into her own writing. It felt quite awkward at first; to her, this seemed too sentimental.

Slowly, a tear slipped down her hollow cheek. Her deep eyes welled up with tears that held an emotion she had never felt before; warmth burst within her chest the moment she opened the paper. Nara wept, sobbing until she gasped for air between her breaths. Nara was growing from the watering of her own tears.

Her tears flowed endlessly for tens of minutes, and nothing could stop them. The paper, too, became soaked by Nara's falling tears. It continued until she was completely drained—the supply of tears she had stored for years, emptied in a single night. Nara fell silent for a moment, then curved her lips into a smile. She rose from her old chair and placed the paper on the desk.

There was nothing written on it. A pure, blank white sheet of paper.

Nara stood at her front door and reached for the wooden signboard above. She changed its words to:

Open when the sky brings the sun.