First Bouquet

At nine the next morning, Shuo Ye was awakened by a beam of light.

It was not coming through a gap in the curtains—he had left them slightly open yesterday and never closed them again. Sunlight shone directly onto his face, warm and glaring enough to make him squint.

He did not know when he had fallen asleep. Last night—or rather, early that morning—he had sat in the living room, staring at the bowl of backup ramen on the table for a long time before ultimately not eating it. He had thought he would be unable to sleep, considering he had spent the previous six nights awake until dawn. But last night, perhaps because he had eaten half a bowl of ramen, he had somehow fallen asleep against the wall.

When he woke up, his body was stiff. He could not turn his neck, and his back felt as though a steel bar had been nailed through it from top to bottom.

He slowly worked his joints and got up from the floor.

He washed his face. Brushed his teeth. Cleared away yesterday's empty bowl and paper bag. He did all of it quickly, as if carrying out a routine—wake up, wash up, tidy up, sit down. No thought required.

Once he sat down, he did not know what to do.

He usually read, trained, or practiced shuriken with Sasuke. But now, he had no interest in any of it. Sitting at the low table with an unopened copy of Introduction to Chakra Control Theory spread before him, he stared at its cover while the events of that night replayed over and over in his mind.

Around ten, he heard footsteps.

They were in the hallway. Soft, but not the way Naruto walked—Naruto always walked as if he were afraid of stepping on landmines, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. These footsteps were steady, neither fast nor slow, deliberately softened.

Shuo Ye turned toward the door.

The footsteps stopped outside it.

Then came the faint sound of something soft being set on the floor. A few seconds of silence followed. Then the footsteps sounded again, heading away.

Whoever it was had left.

Shuo Ye stared at the closed door for a while.

Then he stood, walked over, and opened it.

The hallway was empty.

But something had been placed outside the door.

A transparent glass bottle with a bouquet of white flowers inside. The petals were small, layered densely together, with pale yellow stamens in the center. A note folded in half was tucked beneath the bottle.

Shuo Ye bent down, picked up the note, and unfolded it.

There was only one line, written in neat, rounded handwriting—the handwriting of a girl:

"I won't knock. You don't need to open the door."

There was no signature. But he recognized the handwriting—Ino's. When they had been assigned to the same group for a discussion class at the Ninja Academy, she had once lent him her class notes to copy.

He crouched in the doorway, looking at the bouquet of white flowers.

He did not know much about flowers. His mother used to occasionally arrange seasonal flowers in the living room. He could recognize cherry blossoms, plum blossoms, and wisteria, but he could not tell the rest apart. He did not know what these white flowers were called.

He did not bring the flowers inside.

He left the glass bottle at the door, folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, then closed the door and returned to the corner of the living room.

That afternoon, he went out once—to fill a kettle at the washroom at the end of the hall. When he returned, the white flowers were still by the door, resting quietly in the hallway's dim light. Their petals had not wilted, and their leaves were still green.

He stood beside the flowers for a while.

Then he went back inside.

The third day.

At roughly the same time, footsteps appeared in the hallway again.

This time, Shuo Ye was not sitting down. He stood by the window, looking outside through a gap in the curtains.

It was Ino.

She wore a light purple jacket, her hair tied in a high ponytail, and carried a cloth bag in one hand. She walked to the door of number thirty-seven, crouched down, and first took yesterday's slightly wilted white flowers out of the glass bottle, setting them aside—

Then she took another bouquet from the cloth bag and placed it in the bottle.

These white flowers were different. Their petals were a little larger than yesterday's, shaped like trumpets with tips that curled slightly outward, pure white with the faintest tinge of pink.

She set the bottle back in place, took another note from her pocket, and tucked it under the bottom of the bottle.

Then she stood and left.

She did not knock. She did not call his name. She did not linger at the door for more than a minute.

Shuo Ye let the curtain fall back into place.

From the window, he watched Ino leave the hallway, cross the stone path through the clan district, turn a corner, and disappear from sight.

He waited for a while—until he was certain she had truly gone—before opening the door.

The glass bottle by the door had been filled with new flowers. The note still had only one line:

"These are lilies. They smell a little stronger than yesterday's."

Shuo Ye folded the note and placed it with yesterday's.

Then he brought the glass bottle inside.

He set it on the low table in the living room.

The lilies rested quietly in the dim house. He could not say why—perhaps because yesterday's bouquet had been left unattended outside all day, and the edges of its petals had begun to yellow. He did not want this bouquet to end up the same way.

The fourth day. Sunflowers.

The note read: "These are the cheapest. But I think they're pretty."

Shuo Ye brought the flowers inside and put them beside the lilies. The sunflower was too large, its flower head wider than the glass bottle. It leaned crookedly against the bottle's mouth, looking a little ridiculous.

He stared at the sunflower for a while.

It was leaning toward the window—toward the light.

The fifth day. Baby's breath.

Tiny, tiny white flowers clustered together like a shrunken cloud. The note read: "These will last a long time. They won't wilt for a whole week."

The sixth day. A red flower.

Not a bouquet, but a single stem. A slender stalk with a deep crimson flower at the end, its curled petals layered upon one another like a small clump of frozen flame.

The note read: "A rose. They're usually for giving to other people. But today is the sixth day, and I thought you needed a different color."

Shuo Ye looked at the red rose.

White daisies, white lilies, yellow sunflowers, white baby's breath, red roses. Five colors. Six days.

He put the red rose into another cup—because it did not suit the baby's breath at all.

There were more things in the house now. Not just flowers, but the scents they brought—the sweet fragrance of lilies, the light freshness of baby's breath, the rich intensity of roses. Mixed together, those scents gradually chased away the musty smell that had been sealed inside the house for six days.

He did not know how Ino managed to come every day. Didn't the flower shop only open at ten in the morning? How did she make it to the Uchiha Clan District before class?

He did not dwell on those questions.

Every day, at roughly the same time—between ten and eleven—he simply stood up, walked to the window, pulled aside one corner of the curtain, and waited for footsteps in the hallway.

Then he watched her set down the flowers and leave.

Then he opened the door and brought the flowers inside.

He folded the note.

He grew more familiar with the routine every day.

On the seventh day, he did not stand behind the window.