In the reinforced concrete urban forest, there is a small flower shop called "Six Floors". The store owner is on the sixth floor. As the name suggests, he is like a plant that grows stubbornly in the gaps between buildings. He uses his hands to turn the four seasons into a bottled scenery.
The flower market at five o'clock in the morning is her secret garden. Roses stained with dew pass by her canvas shoes. The fragrance of Dutch tulips hides the shouts of wholesalers. She skillfully peeled the outer petals of peonies into light pink clouds, sprayed the withered baby's breath with silver paint, turned around and received the note from the man in a suit - "For the quarrelsome wife, I want a flower as gentle as the hem of her skirt."
The afternoon sun slanted across the glass counter, the retired teacher held a celadon vase to exchange for carnations, the programmer typed the last line of code behind the hydrangea bush, and the courier always remembered to bring the pickles sent by his mother on Wednesday. There is always pollen embedded in the six layers of fingernails, and the apron pockets are filled with buttons, notes and unspoken thoughts left by customers.
Until that rainy night, a drunkard smashed the display window, and the scattered blue star flowers were mixed with a yellowed photo. In the photo, a young mother is holding a baby. In the background is the same flower shop, with the door sign reading "Six-story Flower Shop". It turns out that the sixth floor of this old building once lived with her grandmother, whom she had never met, and the tacit understanding about flowers has long been engraved in her blood.
When the neon lights replaced the sunset, I stood in front of the window newly decorated with lilies of the valley on the sixth floor, watching the city stretch its brows in the fragrance of flowers. She finally understood that the flower shop not only sells beauty, but also protects the spring hidden in the stamens of every ordinary person.
