Welcome to whatever this is. I don't even know. It's four in the morning and I wrote something. Please give me a prize or something.

The clock on the wall is ticking.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick-

It wouldn't be quite so bad if maybe, just maybe, you could get around to fixing it someday. It's off. The sound doesn't match the seconds, the real seconds that tick by. And in the quiet of the shop, you think it's driving you mad.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick-

You shake the sound from your head, your eyes burn-burn-burning a pattern into your eyelids when you close them against the humid air in the shop. Outside the front window, people pass by lazily, like birds on a winter day; scattered, not grouped. Rare, but not unseen. Rushing, but not speeding.

You wonder how you ended up working in a flower shop if you have such an obvious gift for prose.

You sigh, leaning on the counter and your brain beats a pattern into your skull, much like the heat beneath your eyelids. You're not sure if it's boredom or lack of sleep, but something's got you edgy, not that a person could tell from looking at you.

In perfect time to the broken clock, your fingers tap a lazy rhythm on the counter. Why do you bother to open so early anymore anyway? Well, you suppose you don't have anything else to do. Hanging around your shop won't kill you.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick-

It may be your imagination, but the clock may be slowing.

Tick tick tick tick tick-

No, not slowly. You only think it is because you're overthinking.

Tick tick tick tick tick-

Actually, maybe you were right the first time. Not that you can tell anymore. If it is slowly down, it's doing so steadily, in a way you can't seem to recognize. You won't realize it's done so until it's to the point of stopping.

Tick tick tick tick-

The door of the shop opens, and the sound of the bell above the door cuts across the ticking you were so enwrapped in. You look up, expecting to see someone who can see over the counter. Perhaps a man looking for an anniversary present for his wife. An uncle celebrating his kid niece's birthday. A sister visiting her relative in the hospital. A mother, bringing a bouquet to the graveyard.

But instead you see a little girl, all bright eyes and missing teeth and innocent wonder. But it's those eyes that get you; they're brown.

Sure, brown eyes. Some significant percentage of the population has brown eyes, right?

Well, yes, you'd agree with that. But only one person you know – knew – has those brown eyes.

You put on your "glad to help a customer" smile mixed with the "I'm trying not to freak a kid out" smile, which is when you realize you probably need more practice with kids. Well, the present seems like a good time for that.

"Hello! What can I do for you today?" you ask brightly. The girl, who has a red backpack on and looks as though she's on her way to school, glances up at you and walks up to the counter shyly.

"I'm, um," she begins quietly, before pausing and resetting her voice. You've forgotten what it's like to be a kid, especially what it's like to be a kid talking to an adult. Poor girl.

"I'm going to buy something for my mom," she tells you. "For her birthday. Daddy – I mean, my dad, he gave me some money, so I can pay for it."

You focus on familiar brown eyes and let your smile drop into something more natural as you say, "Well, I'm sure I can help you find just the thing for your mom."

The kid leaves with a lovely bouquet of Aster flowers, for the month of September, and a smile that rivals the sun. She's still amazed that the flower has some hidden meaning, and wonders who, why, how, when, and every other possible thing you can wonder about a flower. What hits is when you explain what contentment means, and that sells the idea to her.

Despite all of those details you remember, those big brown eyes are what stick with you until the next day.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick-

The next day, the girl walks by your shop, stops to look at the displays in the window, and waves before she's gone. You wave back, a cheerful action you don't entirely understand.

And after her school is presumably over, she's back again; looking, smiling, waving. Tick. Tick. Tick.

You look, smile, wave at all the right times and think she'll probably be back tomorrow.

Tickticktickticktickticktick-

The next day, your coworker, a sweet college kid who honestly doesn't look much older than the girl who will undoubtedly walk by again today, is working. It's one of your busy days, Friday is. You don't understand why, but it is, and you appreciate her lack of classes on this day. She's fluttering about with the displays when the girl walks past, and she waves with you when the hand raises to greet you.

"Who's that?" she asks.

"No one, Miku," you lie.

She walks by again about seven hours later. You say the same thing when Miku asks who she is again.

This happens for about a week until Miku manages to get you to say something solid. It's not that you really mind telling her, it's that you don't really think it's important. Besides that, Miku will probably force you to do something you don't want to do – no, something you can't do.

It's better if you stay quiet. But you can't stay quiet forever. So you tell her.

You have to admit, you're shocked when the girl walks in a few weeks later. She hasn't talked to you since she bought the flowers, which might as well have been years ago.

The clock on the wall slows as she opens the door.

You smile and say, "Didn't think I'd see you in here again. What did your mom think of the flowers?"

"She really liked them," the girl tells you. That gapped-toothed smile melts your heart in a way you don't want it to. "She actually cried when I explained them to her."

You raise an eyebrow. "Explained?" you ask.

She scuffs a shoe on the floor, not looking away from you the way you expect. She's shy, but for some reason she holds your gaze. Brown and blue. Familiar brown and tired blue.

"Y'know, about contentment? That's what you said they meant, right?" she says by way of explanation. "It was kind of big deal since she told me I'm adopted and all… I just wanted to show her I still love her, you know? That I'm content with her?" She smiles, interrupting herself. "Well, more than content. But I dunno. I think it was a nice gift all the same."

"That's really sweet of you," you tell her. "And pretty smart for a seven-year-old."

She looks surprised. "How did you know I'm seven?"

You shrug. "Lucky guess."

Tick tick

Tick tick

Tick tick

Tick tick

Tick-

"So, Kaito, who is that girl really?"

"I've told you – no one important, okay?"

"Psh. Sure."

It's the silence that gets to you. Long and low and buzzing.

"She's my kid."

"Wait – you have a kid?"

"Yeah, well, I did. Gave her up for adoption. Well, her mother did. I didn't get much of a say. I was just a kid."

"So, what, does she know?"

You shake your head.

"Seriously? So this is just like, some weird coincidence?"

You shrug.

"And you're not going to tell her?"

"She has a family, Miku. A mother. Probably a father and maybe aunts and uncles and others. If she wants to find me or Meiko when she's older, she can. For now, she's a kid. Let her be a kid without family confusion."

A pause. Then, "Her mother is Meiko Sakine?"

You nod.

"Wow."

You nod again.

She walks by the window the next day and you wave to the girl again.

For some reason, it makes you happy. And the sound of her name in your ears covers up the ticking up the clock.

Because if you've done one thing right in your mess of a life, it's Kaai Yuki.

Review if that's a thing you like to do. If not, perhaps I'll see you around sometime!