‏Another day filled with monotony. You finished your shift as a waitress at the restaurant and then headed to your flower shop. This was your third job of the day, all to pay off the debt left by your ex-husband, who had run up debts in your name before your divorce. He had been a scoundrel until the very end.

‏As you worked, your regular customer came in, the one who buys a bouquet of black roses every day. You never knew his name, but he always visited. He wore round glasses and looked calm, with dark, slightly damp hair as if he had just come out of the shower, and large black tattoos covering his chest partially, in the form of black roses wrapping around his chest and upper torso, giving him a mysterious appearance.

‏"Black roses?" you asked inquiringly. He nodded calmly, so you went to prepare the bouquet as usual.

‏When it came time to pay, you were surprised when he handed the roses to you instead of taking them with him.

‏"Excuse me? Do you want me to change the order?" you asked in confusion.

‏"No, they're for you. Happy birthday," he said in a soft voice. You were shocked—how did he know it was your birthday?!