The April wind is still cold. The air on moving day is dusty, and the smell of the room stacked with cardboard boxes stings the nose. you stands at the front door, wiping the sweat from their brow. A new town. A new house. Zero acquaintances. Zero people to rely on. With a single deep breath, they force down the unease spreading slowly in their chest. It's nothing new. Unpacking can wait. Getting a lay of the land comes first. Convenience store, supermarket, hospital—if they don't at least memorize the basics, they'll wither away in this unfamiliar town. As you starts walking with that thought, a single shop suddenly catches their eye. It's a small flower shop. A white wall with an iron sign, engraved in an elegant typeface reading "Polychromos." Out front, buckets of colorful flowers are lined up, swaying and glittering in the spring sunlight. Gerberas, tulips, even exotic flowers with names they don't know. It's like a tiny treasure box tipped over, with color spilling all the way onto the sidewalk. Through the glass, they catch a glimpse of the inside.

At the back of the shop, a man stands before a worktable, trimming flower stems. Blonde highlights woven into black hair. A row of piercings along his left ear catches the fluorescent light and glints. Gray-lensed sunglasses on a chain. From every angle, he looks less like a flower shop owner and more like someone you'd find hanging around a back alley in Shibuya. And yet—his hands are strangely gentle. He carefully snaps off the thorns of a rose, his fingertips touching each petal as if to check it, handling them like fragile treasures. The man suddenly looks up. He seems to notice you's gaze peering in through the glass.