Chapter Text
When he unlocks the garage doors and breathes in the dark, earthy air, this is the time Baze Malbus is reminded of a home far, far away. Sunrise timidly dances along the windowsills; he sees how the light alights on the empty vases that line the shelves. There are many, many vases that need flowers to hold. The first shipment arrives in fifteen minutes, and surprisingly, on time. Baze picks up bundles of assorted flowers in his arms and drops them on the counter. He hardly needs the help of the delivery man, who misses the quiet power in the owner’s older body.
There are roses, of course, but Baze is much more interested in the magnolias and the peonies. His mother, who tended to a garden during her life, was named the after latter. It’s a name from another language, one that Baze murmurs under his breath when there is no one else in the store. He attracts a loyal clientele in this town. Most come to buy flowers for their loved ones who have passed away. Some clients rush in, laughing, enraptured in their partner’s eyes and purchase flowers by the dozen.
Baze could have ordered pre arranged bouquets, ones that are thrown together because of their complimenting colors or shapes, but he prefers to handle the individual flowers himself. Often times he has been complimented by his customers, so he has no intention to stop now. It is like meditation. Breathing softly, in and out, living his mother’s memories, and he humbly displays these flowers outside in large, jade-green vases.
People live by the clock. First comes the fresh flowers, then the arrangements. Baze takes a half hour to eat breakfast on a bench positioned in front of the shop. He leans back, steamed buns in hand, and watches the world around him, the joggers, the dog-walkers, the vendors, wake up with a mission of their own. He sees college students of varying shapes and sizes stroll or sprint towards the campus. He recognizes most of their faces because they walk the same route every day.
Then all of the sudden, something steals the last bit of breakfast from his hand.
Baze stares incredulously.
It’s a dog.
“Drop it!” he says sharply, and the animal hesitates. Maybe it doesn’t understand what Baze said, but the tone suggests that this is bad behavior. The dog lets the bun fall from his mouth and sits back on its haunches. Baze leans down to pick up the bun. He looks at the dog and says, “I don’t think you should be eating this.” The dog cocks its head. To the left and then to the right. Baze sighs. He used to have a dog, very, very long ago. Now Baze is old and there is a “No Dogs Allowed” sign on his storefront.
“Where’s your master, huh?” he asks crassly, chasing those memories away. The dog pants. “Go home. Go home!”
“She doesn’t speak Chinese.”
The voice comes from down the street, to Baze’s left, and he squints at the man. It takes Baze a moment, but he recognizes the man who sometimes walks this way on the weekends. Baze always knows when he passes by, because he has a walking stick that incessantly sweeps against the pavement.
Chirrut Imwe is blind, and has been, for all of his life.
“This is your dog?” Baze asks incredulously.
“Yes,” Chirrut sighs. “She only understands English, though. My own Mandarin is too broken.”
Now Baze realizes that they’ve been speaking Mandarin. He hears that the dialect is unfamiliar on Chirrut’s lips and Baze himself is limited to his Cantonese vocabulary. So their conversation, inevitably, changes to English. “Where is its leash?”
“Here,” Chirrut holds up a pink leash in his other hand, the other so devotedly carrying the long cane; it is old with scars and lashes from constant use. He readjusts his hold on the cane and lets out a brief chuckle, then continues to say: “She ran away before I could clip it on her. Thankfully she did not go far.” He carefully navigates his way towards Baze and the waiting hound, and kneels down.
“Let me,” Baze begins to say, reaching for the leash. Chirrut holds up a hand to stop him.
“No, I must learn.” Chirrut puts down his cane and says to the dog, “Come here, girl.” She bounds over to him and allows him to fumble around for the chain. Baze watches how the dog sits, obediently, yet turns its head to look all around. Its tongue hangs out goofily. Chirrut manages to clip the leash, checks the tension, and then scratches the dog around the ears. “Good girl.” Chirrut inclines his head at Baze. “I’m sorry for your breakfast.”
He looks at the ruined bun and drops it in the outside trash can. “Eh, it’s fine. Why do you have a sight-seeing dog?”
Chirrut sighs again. It seems as if this dog tests much of his renown, infinite patience. “She was trained to be a guide, but ultimately was too unpredictable for new owners. I decided to ta- hey!” The dog, true to his words, suddenly ran forwards and headbutted Baze’s hands, begging for a pat. Baze refuses and tucks his hands into his frock. “-to take her.”
“Is that wise?” Baze asks, not caring if he sounds too blunt.
“Nope,” Chirrut replies cheerfully. His blind eyes sweep over Baze, emotionless, but the smiling wrinkles around his eyes tell a different story. The flower shop owner realizes just how old they are. They are both old men with hidden histories. “Say, I’ll make it up to you. Do you like tofu pudding?”
“Oh,” Baze says, mildly confused. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m perfectly fine.” Baze doesn’t really remember what tofu pudding tastes like, anyways. He stands up. There is a stifling realization at how he towers over the blind man, and then checks himself. “I should get going. The shop. Flowers.”
“Maybe I’ll buy some later,” the blind man wonders aloud. “You’ll have to describe them to me.” He nods at Baze. Then with a whistle, he trots away with the dog. The dog’s ears are perked, tail wagging, and it looks back at Baze curiously. They disappear after a minute, disappearing down one of the side alleys that lead to the university campus.
“The dog,” Baze says absentmindedly, belatedly. “The dog will have to stay outside. Too messy.”