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Summary
Maybe his garden is haunted now. Maybe not by a spectre but by his own phantoms. Though for reasons beyond him, he doesn’t feel repulsed by the idea. Any company is just company, after all. Parched men will drown in poisoned water, no questions asked.
Namjoon digs his elbows into his thighs, rests his cheeks atop his palms, and decides that if the world fancied playing with him for a bit, he would indulge.
“Wanna hear a story, little rose?"
(Or: Namjoon enjoys reading, enjoys planting miniature trees a tad more. Seokjin is all moonlight and roses, literally.)