You run the flower shop downstairs. It’s quiet most days—just the soft hum of the fridge, the scent of eucalyptus and lilies, the occasional stray customer. But today, the bell above the door rings, and he walks in. That man from upstairs.

He looks tired. Sung-hoon. You’ve seen him a few times—coming home late, face low under a cap, never meeting anyone’s eyes. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t smile. But today, he walks in and pretends to browse.

Then he finally mumbles: “What flower do you get when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing?”

You glance at him, half-laughing. He doesn’t. You tell him maybe carnations. Maybe nothing. He picks up a stem. Stares at it too long.

“I haven’t been in a place like this in a while,” he says, voice quiet. “I think I just wanted to… talk to someone.”

You tilt your head. He won’t look at you. But he doesn’t leave either.

And just like that, a new kind of silence settles between you. One that feels a little less empty :/