Morning came, and Sof woke in his room. The caramel-colored bed, modern gray-painted walls, plushies and plants, evergreen-painted ceiling, white curtains, and fuzzy carpet surrounded him. Light filtered through the curtains in soft streaks, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. The quiet hum of the city outside was barely audible, yet it pressed gently against his ears, reminding him he was awake.
He yawned and stretched, feeling slightly off. His bangs didn't curl as usual, instead falling straighter, heavier against his forehead. The black hoodie draped over him was unfamiliar, stiff from the folds, and the faint scent of blood clung stubbornly to the sleeve. He pulled at the fabric with a puzzled frown, as though tugging might shake off the unease.
He stood and approached the mirror, eyes cloudy and puffy. Maybe it was just sleep gunk, he thought—but the mirror betrayed him. The reflection staring back wasn't himself. It moved like him, mimicked his gestures perfectly, yet carried a strange, foreign weight—like a shadow wearing his skin.
"Who in the hell are you?" he muttered. His voice sounded strange, muffled even to him, bouncing lightly off the walls. Every motion mirrored his own, every sense familiar, but the expression… the expression was alien, confused, almost accusing.
He left the mirror, the faint metallic tang of blood still lingering in his nostrils, and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pummel his shoulders and back. He tried to wash away the man he didn't recognize, the one no one knew existed—not even himself. The droplets ran down his skin, tiny rivers carrying away sweat and tension, but not the unease lodged in his chest.
Sof emerged from the bathroom, steam curling behind him, fog trailing like a reluctant shadow, softening the edges of the room. The air was heavy with warmth and moisture, clinging to his skin. He let the fog follow him as he walked toward the mirror, small puddles forming beneath his bare feet with each careful step.
He took a good look at his face, scrutinizing every detail, questioning his existence and the subtle changes that had occurred overnight. His straight locks had become slightly wavy, falling in uneven strands across his forehead. The puffiness of his eyes, the subtle shadows beneath them, and the faint creases at the corners all added to the unfamiliarity. Disgust and confusion twisted his lips, throat tight with unease.
Quickly, he dried and curled his hair, the familiar scent of his shampoo grounding him. Finally, the curls fell into place, familiar and reassuring. Relief and lightness washed over him, the weight of the unknown eased slightly by the restoration of the visible self he recognized.
He pulled on his bear hoodie—caramel and coffee, warm and soft, a reflection of the person he was. Despite his big, muscled frame, the hoodie softened him, framed the gentle tilt of his brows and the warmth in his eyes. It was a shield of comfort, a reminder of who he was beneath the chaos.
Dressed comfortably, he descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath his weight, and made himself breakfast: toast slathered with peanut butter and jelly, a mug of black coffee steaming beside it. Each bite grounded him, each sip a small affirmation of the day beginning.
After breakfast, he took his keys and opened the flower shop, the door's soft chime announcing his entrance into the quiet, plant-filled space. The smell of soil and blooms greeted him, familiar and reassuring.
"Strange…" he muttered. An unease lingered, subtle and unplaceable, threading through his senses like a faint vibration. He couldn't name it, couldn't locate it, but it prickled at his awareness. He shrugged it off and went about the day.
The hours passed quietly. He watered plants, rearranged flowers, wiped leaves, checked soil, and adjusted vases, letting the rhythm of routine soothe him. By mid-afternoon, he rested at the counter, head leaning against it, eyes lingering on the broken bathroom door leaning beside the frame. Its torn edges, the splintered wood, whispered reminders of past chaos.
"Will Mister Dohyun even come back…?" he wondered. A pang of sadness tightened his chest—not just for a customer lost, but for the little sense of stability that had slipped away. Embarrassment prickled at him for the small mistakes, the angered glances, the moments he felt inadequate.
The door chimed, and a handsome young man stepped in, the kind of presence that shifted the room's weight. His eyes immediately locked onto Sof, unwavering, intense, as though measuring him, reading him.
"Good morning, sir. How may I help you?" Sof asked, offering his usual warm smile, trying to hide the tremor of anticipation curling in his chest.
The man's eyes never wavered.
"What flowers say 'welcome home'?" he asked, his voice even, deliberate, commanding attention without raising volume.
"Sunflowers and daisies. Are you welcoming someone home, sir?" Sof asked, curiosity slipping in despite himself.
"I'll take a hundred of each, in one bouquet," the man replied, calm and unblinking.
As Sof prepared the order, the man moved quietly among the pots, browsing without touching. His gaze was sharp, assessing, thoughtful. Occasionally, his eyes drifted back to Sof, as if he were both observing and considering him simultaneously. There was a coldness there, but tempered with attentiveness, subtle, measured.
Once the bouquet was ready, the man returned, check in hand—3 million won.
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is too much. I can't accept it," Sof said, flustered, fingers trembling slightly as he fumbled with the paper wrapping. The money felt absurd in his hands, heavy with unspoken weight.
"Give me the change, of course," the man replied, calm, deliberate.
Sof's cheeks burned, a hot flush creeping over his ears and neck. His fingers twitched, brushing nervously against the bouquet.
Before he could respond, the man laughed—a sound full, rich, and unexpectedly warm. It rolled through the quiet shop, filling the space, disarming him entirely.
"It's a joke. Keep the change, please."
The man took the bouquet, but gently plucked a single daisy and tucked it behind Sof's ear. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from Sof's face. His eyes—deep, blue, warm—lingered with quiet affection, full of subtle emotion.
"Welcome home, Wohyo-…" he murmured under his breath, voice low and soft, trailing off, almost inaudible. The words brushed Sof's awareness like a feather, leaving an echo that made his chest tighten, his heart skipping a beat, caught between recognition and confusion.