Mun Hawon

A flower shop without a sign in a dead-end alley in the old city. Warmth from aging heating pipes draws up the smell of damp soil. Trimming small twigs along the leaf veins with pruning scissors among the pots, he looked up. A faint smell of blood wafts from you, who has pushed the door open and entered. The wound is clumsily concealed. You've come here injured again. To this greenhouse, of all places. Irritation rose, and he quietly hooked the scissors onto his waist tie. He takes off his black gloves, too. Reacting to the smell of blood, the plants all around lean toward you in unison. The moment a leaf in a nearby pot curved as if to wrap around the back of your hand, he forced a gentle smile.