Quillan went on, a touch of fondness in his tone. "I met him about a year ago, you know. He came knocking one rainy morning, asking if I had the rare plant he needed. Said it was for some research on photosynthesis in extremophiles, or maybe bioluminescence—I forget which."
"Photosynthesis," Adrian said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Yes, that." Quillan chuckled. "Anyway, he'd asked one of the professors at the university, and the fellow told him—half-joking, mind you—to seek out 'the crazy plant artist who lives in a Monet painting.' So here he came, mud on his boots, serious as a monk, eyes like a hawk."
Mira let out a laugh, still taking in the scene. "That… actually sounds about right."
"Since then," Quillan continued, gesturing toward the trellises and carefully labeled plant beds, "he's become something of a quiet partner. I share rare specimens, the kind I coax from strange corners of this earth, and he helps me test water quality, track soil pH, even designed a few microclimate sensors. Brilliant work, really. You'd never guess it looking at him fiddling with vines."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I think."
Quillan grinned. "You're welcome."
Adrian lowered his hands, the wire slipping gently to rest against his wrist again. His voice was calm, dry, and just a touch playful.
"…Didn't expect to see you here."
Mira blinked, still stunned. "Neither did I…"
Quillan tilted his head with mild curiosity. "Wait, you two know each other?"
Mira hesitated just a second. "Uh, yeah—we're in the same class. And the same Rare Plant Club, actually."
Adrian gave a small nod of confirmation, folding his arms loosely. "We've worked on a few group projects."
"Ah," Quillan said, clearly amused, "a classroom connection. That explains the mutual surprise." He clapped his hands once, gently. "Well then, I'll leave you two to chat while I check the watering system. Mira, don't let him brush you off with short answers—he's more interesting than he pretends."
He gave them both a sly wink, then turned and disappeared down a narrow, fern-lined path, whistling softly under his breath.
Silence fell for a moment, soft and green, broken only by the distant sound of trickling water and the rustle of leaves.
Mira tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then broke the stillness. "Didn't know you're also a botanist now. What are you doing here?"
Adrian smirked without turning, his fingers lightly brushing a tendril of vine. "Just as you see—a part-time botanist. And you? A wanderer? Already bored with the beehive?"
Mira's pout was immediate. "Don't ever mention the beehive to me. That happened once."
He gave her an amused glance. "Once is all it takes."
"Me and Mr. Quillan," she said with mock dignity, "just artist meeting artist."
He gave a small chuckle at that.
She tilted her head. "Do you come here often?"
Adrian straightened slightly, squinting toward a far trellis. "Sometimes. Not very often. Just… right enough to meet an unexpected guest, I guess."
Mira's smile curved gently. "What a coincidence, huh. Need any help?"
He glanced down at his hands, one still wrapped around a long-stemmed vine. "Almost done, actually. Besides…" He looked back at her with a dry humor in his eyes. "The fact that you're standing still is already helping."
Mira narrowed her eyes at him, mock-offended. "Hey—what's that supposed to mean? I'm really helpful, you know."
Adrian grinned. "Sure. Spiritually, maybe."
Mira leaned her head back to look at the crisscrossing canopy of vines. "What happens here in winter?"
Without looking away from the cluster of leaves in his hand, Adrian replied, "Most of these plants go into dormancy—kind of like winter-sleeping. They'll wake up in spring. But I'll have to help Quillan prepare some coverings, supports, move the more fragile ones inside. Snowfall can be rough. So… still a lot to do today."
Mira blinked at him, a little surprised. "You really help him with all that?"
He glanced at her, noticing her tone. "Why not?"
"I just… didn't know you did, you know… humanity-type activities," she said, teasing but genuinely curious.
Adrian chuckled under his breath. "I'm not a hermit."
"Debatable," Mira muttered with a smile.
He smirked but kept working.
"You don't have class today?" he asked, adjusting a support string on the vine.
"Canceled," she said, and popped a seed pod on a nearby branch absentmindedly. "Felt like a sign to go wandering."
Adrian nodded. "Good call."
She looked around. "Did you walk here?"
"Yeah," he said, stepping back to check the alignment of the plant structure. "Not that far if you cut through the old orchard path. Peaceful walk."
Mira hummed, as if trying to picture it. "Sounds… poetic."
Adrian shrugged. "Depends on the playlist."
She laughed, and the sound was soft and brief, like a wind chime stirred by a breeze.
A warm voice drifted toward them through the green tunnel.
"There you two are—chatting instead of working, hmm?"
Mira turned to see Mr. Quillan approaching with a smile and a loosely folded sunhat in one hand. He glanced at the sky briefly, then back at Mira with a hint of apology.
"I hate to ask a guest for help, Mira, especially on your first visit," he began, "but would you mind giving me a hand? The forecast's been odd, and they're saying winter might come earlier this year. I could use help moving some of the more vulnerable plants into the in-house greenhouse."
"Oh—of course! I'd love to help," Mira said, perking up. "Where should I start?"
"You're a gem," Quillan said with a relieved nod. "Just pop your things in the house first, then I'll show you what needs to go."
Mira gave Adrian a quick, amused look—something between "see, I am helpful" and "what have I gotten into?"—before heading back toward the wooden house.
Inside, the warmth of aged wood and faint lavender oil greeted her. She found a low bench near the door, carefully set down her camera and shoulder bag, and took a moment to glance again at the paintings—colors of peonies, morning glories, and forest fog echoing the world outside. Then she tied her hair back with a scrunchie and stepped back out with sleeves rolled, ready.
Mr. Quillan was waiting by a group of terracotta pots, each holding delicate greenery—alpine herbs, miniature ferns, and soft-leafed trailing vines.
"These little ones are picky about the cold," he said, handing her a wooden tray. "If you can help me move these to the back, I'll open up the greenhouse doors."
Mira nodded, carefully arranging the pots in rows. As they walked, she glanced sideways at Quillan. "You really have a lot of species here. Where did you find all of them?"
"Oh, all over," he said. "Some from travels. Some traded with botanist friends. A few… well, they find me, I like to think. This one here"—he gestured to a pot with speckled leaves—"is native to high mountain forests in Taiwan. Loves shade, hates wind."
Mira tilted her head, eyes wide. "Do you document them?"
"Mostly sketches," he said with a wry smile.
"That's incredible. It's like… a hidden plant sanctuary."
Quillan's eyes crinkled at the edges. "A bit chaotic, but yes. A sanctuary. And now you're part of the rescue team."
They reached the side door to the greenhouse, where the soft hum of fans and filtered light awaited. Mira stepped inside with the tray, breathing in the rich, earthy scent. Outside, Quillan was already returning for the next load.
And so, with a rhythm of gentle steps and quiet questions, Mira moved back and forth, carrying green life between a fading autumn and the long breath of winter to come.
After a while, when the last tray had been carried in and the plants nestled safely under the soft light of the greenhouse, Mr. Quillan clapped his hands together lightly and said, "Enough for now. You've both earned a rest."
He led them back into the house, where the late afternoon sun cast long gold fingers across the wooden floor.
Quillan's sitting room felt more like a map of his travels than a single location—shelves crowded with lacquer boxes and ink scrolls, a Korean moon jar tucked beside an old globe, sandalwood incense still faint in the air.
A low table took center space, flanked by floor cushions stitched with Burmese patterns. They sat down, Mira cross-legged with her hands wrapped around a warm cup, Adrian stretching his long legs out and leaning slightly back, one arm slung over the cushion.
Quillan poured the tea with a practiced hand, then settled across from them with a content sigh. "Lucky to have the two of you here today," he said, his voice warm. "I'm getting too old to keep everything in shape, and this garden isn't exactly shrinking."
Mira smiled. "It's beautiful. Really. I feel like I walked into a different world."
Adrian reached lazily for a pastry without looking, just as Mira, absent-minded in her wonder, reached out as well. Their fingers touched—briefly, unexpectedly.
She jerked back, startled. "Oh—sorry—!"
Adrian glanced at her, one brow lifted in quiet amusement. "Didn't know the pastries were so competitive."
Mira, flustered, grabbed a different one without looking up. "You were taking too long," she muttered, clearly pretending nothing had happened.
He smirked, eyes returning to the postcard in his other hand.
Meanwhile, Mira dove back into the collection, flipping pages with the reverence of someone discovering treasure. "They're so detailed," she murmured. "It's like you painted them with a microscope."
Quillan chuckled. "Close. A magnifying glass, a thermos of tea, and plenty of patience."
She hovered over a glowing vine illustration. "This one looks like something from a dream."
Adrian, still watching her, sipped his tea. "You look like a kid in a candy store."
"Shush," she replied without missing a beat. "This is better than candy. It's—like—if candy taught you the secrets of the forest."
Quillan laughed. "You've got the spirit, Mira."
As she grinned and turned another page, the sunlight slid a little lower, casting long shadows through the garden windows. Adrian reached for another pastry—this time unchallenged—and flipped a postcard between his fingers, quietly watching Mira with an unreadable expression.
Outside, the garden exhaled in the cool hush of approaching evening.
Quillan tapped a finger against the edge of the sketchbook, as if weighing something unsaid. Then he rose once more and crossed the room, opening a narrow drawer beneath the bookshelf. From within, he retrieved a thin canvas board wrapped in old parchment.
"This one's recent," he said, returning to them. "A small piece. I painted it for a charity auction in Kyoto—held by the hospice clinic near the temple I once stayed in. They're raising funds for art therapy and memory work. Quiet kind of project, but it matters."
He laid the canvas down gently. A dandelion, half-dispersed, glowed softly against a pale, brushed background. Its seeds floated outward—some still suspended in air, others just beginning to fade into the page. It looked less like a painting and more like a breath caught mid-flight.
"They ask artists to send a short reflection with the piece," Quillan continued, his voice softer now. "Something to accompany the work. I've tried a few drafts but… nothing quite lands. It doesn't have to be long. Just something true." He looked up with a small, sheepish smile. "I was wondering if either of you might help me find the words."
Mira straightened a little, warmth rising in her chest. "I'd love to try. It's beautiful. I mean—what it's for, and the painting too."
Quillan's shoulders relaxed, and his smile turned genuine. "Thank you. I thought… you might understand the tone it needs."
They didn't speak right away.
As Mira reached for the pencil and Adrian leaned in, the room seemed to soften further—less a scene, more a shared breath. Quillan watched them for a few moments longer, then rose with a low stretch and a soft pat to his knee.
"I'll leave you two to it," he said mildly, gathering the empty cups. "I need to check on the greenhouse heating anyway. Doesn't trust the timer these days."
He didn't wait for a response, just smiled and moved through the house with a kind of practiced ease—his footsteps fading into the gentle creaks of wood and the hush of evening settling in.