Kira remained motionless long after the old florist uttered those four quiet words.
"I'm waiting for one."
The breeze stirred the countless flowers lining the front of the little shop, carrying their fragrance through the narrow street. Somewhere in the distance, merchants called to passing customers, children laughed as they chased one another between weathered buildings, and a carriage rattled over uneven cobblestones. Life continued around them as though nothing unusual had happened, yet Kira couldn't shake the feeling that the old man had been expecting this meeting for far longer than she had.
He offered no explanation.
Instead, he bent once more over the flower beds and resumed watering them with slow, practiced movements. Every motion was deliberate, every drop of water falling precisely where it was needed. Had she not seen his clouded eyes herself, Kira would never have believed he was blind.
She studied him in silence.
"I asked you for a black flower," she finally said.
"And I answered."
"You answered with a riddle."
The old man chuckled softly.
"Young people have such little patience these days."
Kira folded her arms across her chest. "Then perhaps old people enjoy wasting time."
A warm laugh escaped him.
"Perhaps we do."
Without another word, he reached for a second watering can resting beside the doorway and held it out in her direction.
"My hands have grown tired. Would you help me finish?"
Kira stared at the watering can before looking back at him.
"I didn't come here to tend flowers."
"No."
His smile never faded.
"You came looking for answers."
"And you're asking me to water plants?"
"I'm asking whether you're willing."
She almost refused.
Everything about this encounter felt absurd. She had followed a trail of clues across the oldest district of the capital, expecting hidden messages or secret meetings. Instead, she had found herself standing before an elderly florist who spoke in riddles and insisted she help with his garden.
Yet something told her this wasn't as meaningless as it appeared.
With a quiet sigh, she accepted the watering can.
The clay pots beneath the window held flowers far smaller than the magnificent blossoms surrounding the shop. Some had only just begun to push through the soil, while others drooped beneath leaves that had yet to fully unfurl. They were fragile in a way the larger flowers were not.
Kira crouched beside them.
Without thinking, she tilted the watering can toward the smallest plant first.
Only after she had finished watering every pot did she straighten again.
The old florist remained exactly where she'd left him.
"You began with the smallest one," he observed.
"It needed the water first."
"Most people start with the largest."
"They're healthy enough to wait."
"And the smallest?"
Kira answered without giving the question much thought.
"The weakest dies first."
Silence settled between them.
The old florist lowered his head ever so slightly, as though acknowledging an answer only he understood.
"I see."
Nothing more.
No praise.
No explanation.
He simply accepted the empty watering can and returned it to its place beside the doorway.
For reasons she couldn't explain, Kira felt as though she had just completed an examination without ever realizing she'd been tested.
The old man disappeared into the shop and emerged a moment later carrying a small wooden tray.
"The flower."
Kira reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew the black flower the prison physician had delivered the night before. She placed it gently upon the tray.
The florist handled it with remarkable care, his fingertips brushing lightly over each petal before setting it upon the old wooden counter inside the shop.
For several long heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then a deep metallic click echoed beneath their feet.
Kira instinctively stepped back as another followed, then another, each one louder than the last. Ancient gears hidden somewhere below the floor groaned to life, sending faint vibrations through the weathered boards. Dust drifted lazily from the ceiling as a section of the floor behind the counter slowly slid aside, revealing a narrow stone staircase spiraling into darkness.
Cool air drifted upward from below, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and something else she couldn't quite place.
Oil.
Old parchment.
Fresh earth.
Kira stared at the hidden passage.
"So this is what the flower was meant to reveal."
The old florist neither confirmed nor denied it.
Instead, he reached beneath the counter and retrieved an old brass lantern. With practiced ease, he struck flint against steel until a small flame flickered to life behind the glass. Warm light spilled across the first few stone steps before being swallowed by the darkness below.
Only then did he turn toward Kira.
"The path has opened," he said quietly.
"What waits beneath?"
He rested one hand upon the lantern's handle.
"The same thing that has always waited."
His answer only deepened the mystery.
Before Kira could ask another question, the old florist stepped onto the staircase and began descending at an unhurried pace, the lantern's light swaying gently with each step. He never looked back to see whether she followed, nor did he invite her to do so.
It was as though the choice belonged entirely to her.
Kira lingered for only a moment.
Everything she had uncovered since returning to the past—the stolen diary, the black flower seed, the anonymous message, the physician's warning—had led her here. If she turned back now, every answer she sought would remain buried beneath the city forever.
Taking a slow breath, she stepped onto the ancient staircase.
The stone felt cool beneath her boots.
One step became another, and another still, while the faint scent of blooming flowers gradually faded behind them. Above, the hidden doorway slid shut with a dull rumble, sealing away the last traces of daylight.
The only light that remained came from the lantern carried by the old florist as he continued leading her deeper beneath the capital, toward a place that should never have existed.