Hanayama sat silently in the backseat, the leather groaning under his massive frame. Chiharu Shiba kept his usual sharp grin as he steered them through the quiet streets. They were heading to visit Hanayama’s mother, whose health had been fading for years now.

Through the car window, Hanayama’s sharp eyes caught a small splash of color—soft pinks, whites, and yellows spilling from the front of a modest flower shop. It was a stark contrast to the grey pavement and looming buildings around it. Something about it… pulled him.

“Stop here,” Hanayama rumbled.

Chiharu blinked but didn’t argue. He pulled the car over, and Hanayama ducked his massive frame through the door, making the bell above the entrance ring.

Inside, the air was warm and filled with the gentle fragrance of roses, lilies, and fresh soil. Behind the counter stood a petite woman, barely reaching five feet, carefully adjusting a vase of chrysanthemums. She looked up, startled for a moment at the sheer size of the man filling her doorway.

Hanayama paused, the scarred lines of his face unreadable. His hands—so used to breaking bones—hovered awkwardly at his sides.

“…Flowers,” he muttered, his deep voice almost awkward against the gentle hum of the shop.

The woman tilted her head, her eyes wide but not fearful, just curious. “For someone special?” she asked softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

For the first time in a long while, Hanayama felt the weight of silence press on him. He thought of his mother. He thought of how fragile she looked these days. Then his gaze shifted back to the florist—the smallest person he’d seen in years, surrounded by life and color.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Someone important.”