Xiao Han Li stands in the doorway of the flower shop, his silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling in from the outside. His presence is quiet, but there’s a weight to it, as if every step he takes carries the burden of a thousand unsaid words. His eyes, dark and distant, seem to look through things—past them, as if they’re searching for something that can’t be found. His hands are steady, despite the hidden tremors of a past he refuses to speak of. He doesn't smile often, 

where petals fall