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The soft chime of the doorbell rings as Xia Fei steps into the florist. The strong scent of flowers should be overwhelming, but after visiting this shop every week for so long, he barely registers it anymore.
Before he can take another step, a familiar voice calls out to him. “Ah, Felix! Right on cue. Just a moment, love, your flowers are nearly done.”
Xia Fei simply nods in response and lets his gaze wander around the tiny shop. It’s interesting how the flowers change every time he comes by, how certain flowers only appear during certain seasons. He takes in the vibrant display of blooms, the careful arrangement of petals and leaves.
There’s a strange kind of poetry in it, the way each flower is unique yet blends seamlessly with the others. But for him, only one colour ever truly stands out—a bright, striking red.
A shade so familiar.
The same crimson in knowing eyes that always curved up at him, soft with mirth. The same deep shade woven into a long braid, always neatly tied.
(The only times he’s seen that red hair in a mess were when Xia Fei had clumsily attempted to braid it himself. Fingers tangled hopelessly in hair surprisingly softer than it looked.)
(He remembers the laughter, light and teasing. “Trying to turn me bald, are you?” That voice, warm and amused, lingering like a ghost in his mind.)
His fingers brush absently over the petals of a red bloom he doesn’t recognise, lost in memories he can never go back to. Memories of a person who will never return. His chest tightens, an ache he’s carried for a long time now.
A cheerful voice pulls him back to the present. “I still can’t believe a big shot like you is a regular at my little shop.”
Xia Fei exhales a quiet chuckle. “Big shot? Hardly. I’m just an influencer.”
And a broke part-time waiter, too.
“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense,” she scoffs, waving a hand. “You lot are practically celebrities these days.”
His smile, practiced and easy, slides into place. “If you say so.”
Noticing his gaze lingering on the flowers beside him, the florist perks up. “Those flowers have caught your fancy, haven’t they?”
It isn’t the flowers that interest him, not really. It’s how the colour reminds him of a certain person he wants to see again. But instead of saying that, he keeps his mask in place, tilting his head with an easy smile. “Yeah, they’re pretty. What are they called?”
The florist blinks in surprise. “Oh, do you not know? Well, I suppose it makes sense, you’re not from around here.” She steps out from behind the counter and gestures towards the flowers. “These are poppies. Red poppies, specifically. They’re quite significant here—they symbolise remembrance.”
“Remembrance?” Xia Fei echoes, fingers halting against the petal.
She nods. “Mhm. In Bridon, red poppies are used to commemorate those who died or suffered in the wars. It’s the reason you often see people pinning them to their coats on Remembrance Day here—it’s quite the tradition, really. A beautiful one, if you ask me.” Then, a smile suddenly spreads on her face as she adds, “They also symbolise hope. Hope for a peaceful future.”
Xia Fei stares at the flowers, lips barely parting as he murmurs, “I see…”
A quiet pause settles between them, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. But the florist, ever the bright spirit, suddenly claps her hands together. “Oh, I nearly forgot! Your bouquet’s all wrapped up and ready.” She turns to fetch it, then pauses, casting a glance at the red poppies before looking back at him with a knowing smile.
“Fancy taking some of these as well? On the house for my favourite customer.”
As the door shuts behind him, Xia Fei quickly pulls a pair of round shades and mask from his pocket and slips them on. The glasses don’t particularly suit him, but his face more than makes up for it—not that anyone will see it. It’s a funny thing, wearing sunglasses in a city perpetually cast under grey clouds, but he’s long since grown used to the dreariness of Bridon.
It’s raining today. It’s always raining here.
A stray raindrop lands at the corner of his eye, caressing his face as it slides down his cheek. He takes in a slow, shuddered breath before pulling his hood up and letting his feet carry him forward. They know where to go.
As he walks along the wet gravel, he recalls how the florist had wished him goodbye without the usual “Come again.” She’s learned not to say it after seeing his face one too many times.
He’s always come again, after all. It’s expected.
(But Xia Fei knows that life doesn’t work the way people expect. The same way life takes away those you hold dear without warning on an unexpected day.)
(The same way it never lets you say one last goodbye.)
The first time he visited the shop, the florist had immediately recognised him. Her best friend was a fan of his and often watched his vlogs. The next time he visited, she was surprised once more. And that surprise only grew as he continued returning, buying the same bouquet of flowers again and again without fail.
10 red dahlias, tied together with a yellow ribbon.
After a few months of helping Xia Fei out with his orders, the florist finally worked up the courage to ask, “If you don’t mind me asking, what are these flowers for?”
“They’re for someone.”
“You buy these every week. Who could this lucky person be?”
Xia Fei had paused then, unsure of how to answer.
His boss? That would sound weird to anyone, and besides, that person was no longer his boss. A friend? It’s true that their relationship was friendly enough, but they were anything but friends.
Then… the person he loved?
Well, it was too late for any of that. There was no point in unrealised feelings only gaining a name when that person was already long gone.
He settled for something that wouldn’t invite further questions. A small, reserved smile. “Just someone I know.”
Someone I knew.
Before Xia Fei even realises it, he’s here.
He stops in front of a familiar stone, squatting instead of sitting on the damp earth. He stares at the engraved name and blinks when nothing changes.
Instead of his usual greetings, what comes out is a curt: “This is the last time I’ll be visiting you.”
It’s a little harsh. But there’s no one here to chide him for it anymore.
“Laoban, can you hear me?” he tries again, voice louder this time. “I won’t be coming back.”
Silence.
There’s no light flick to his forehead, no soft pinch at the bridge of his nose, and Xia Fei laughs at that. At himself. “You’ve been gone for almost 2 years now. I don’t know why I still expect to hear you scolding me for acting like a brat.”
He’s visited almost every week for more than a year now, only missing out on days when work demanded it or when he thought he was getting closer to the truth of Vein’s death. But he hasn’t gotten any closer. And the only person who might know something is someone Xia Fei never wanted to work with again.
(Yet, the hand stretched out towards him is too tempting, and Xia Fei is only one step away from taking the bait.)
Today is his 53rd visit, and also his last. Xia Fei planned for last week’s visit to be his final one—as one big attempt to confess the feelings he never got to express—but he realised that there was something far more important that he hadn’t yet conveyed.
53rd visit. 530 red dahlias.
Xia Fei has said too many things to this grave, some words slurred by alcohol, others whispered to the wind. Simple things, like how he refused to burn paper money because being rich in one life was enough. Or mundane things, like updates about his work, day or life.
They all end with an unheard confession, lost to the quiet wind with no place to go.
This time, what slips out of his mouth is something entirely different. “I miss you,” he says. “I miss you every day.”
I won’t say I love you this time. I won’t. That barely matters anymore. But I miss you. I miss you so much. Can you come back?
The only response is the rustling of the leaves, the hush of the rain around him.
A bitter smile tugs at his lips. “Actually, I lied about not visiting again. It’s just going to get busier now, so I won’t have the time to see you. I know you hate liars, laoban, but you can’t do anything about it now, can you?” There’s a short pause, then his smile relaxes as he says his final line. “I’ll come find you again after I figure out the truth. Wait for me, okay?”
Xia Fei stands up and walks away without looking back. He doesn’t say goodbye. He never got the chance to when it mattered most. And he’ll be back. He will.
A single red poppy sits in his breast pocket, the only trace of colour in all this grey. Just like this poppy, he will keep Vein close to his heart and think of him— remember him—for as long as it continues to beat.
And one day, he will find the truth.
Xia Fei pulls out his phone and looks back at the last message he received from that person who obviously did not understand the meaning of “friend”. His finger hovers over the screen for a moment before, finally, he hits send.
[You]: okay, fine. deal
.
.
.
As a familiar silhouette crouches before the stone bearing his own name, crimson eyes trace after every detail with quiet scrutiny.
Xia Fei’s hair is lighter than the last time he saw him. It’s not something surprising considering Vein’s been keeping tabs on him, watching his vlogs and scrolling through his socials under an alt account. From this angle, Vein can’t make out the eyebrow piercing that had caught him off guard in a selfie from months ago—though, really, what is Vein if not endlessly entertained by Xia Fei’s antics?
He listens, bemused, as Xia Fei speaks to his grave. His voice carries clearly through the damp air despite the distance. But there’s a strange twinge in Vein’s chest as he takes in the sight, a heavy and unfamiliar weight.
(After all, he’s always gone along with Xia Fei’s whims, just to catch the expression on his face.)
(He liked it best when Xia Fei was beaming, those tiny creases forming at the corners of his eyes. Xia Fei was most charming like that.)
Watching Xia Fei’s disappearing figure, he doesn’t expect the feeling to manifest into action, and for his mouth to open before he can stop himself.
“Fe—”
A firm grip clamps down on his shoulder.
“He needs to believe you’re dead,” a voice reminds him. Calm, almost casual. But Vein knows better. There’s a threat buried beneath those words, quiet enough to be mistaken for nothing at all.
Vein tilts his head slightly, lips curling into a lazy grin as he glances at his uninvited guest. “I know. I was only clearing my throat. Is there something wrong with that?”
Liu Xiao doesn’t look the least bit convinced, but he lets it go. Instead, a buzz cuts through the silence, interrupting their little exchange. Liu Xiao pulls out his phone, and behind the thin frame of his glasses, Vein recognises that telltale glint of satisfaction—like a spider sensing fresh prey caught in its web.
Vein doesn’t need to ask to know who sent the message.
Liu Xiao’s smile sharpens as he tucks his phone away. “Now, let the game continue.”
Vein exhales slowly, gaze flickering back to where Xia Fei had stood just moments ago.
(One day, far in the future, he will finally have the chance to reveal himself to Xia Fei again, when the timing is right.)
(But today is not that day. So for now, Vein can only step back into the shadows and wait.)