Hidden Peacock
Young Master Qian, the one they called Monet Qian, barely spoke. Not out of arrogance, nor lack of confidence. Just⊠in silence. Like a stone falling into water, without a sound.
And yet, he was at the heart of everything in Shanghai. Not on the docks, nor on stage, nor in the market. But everywhere at once. In a laugh, in a rumor, in a glance exchanged around a street corner.
His mother said he never stayed still. One moment, he would talk as if weaving stories. The next, he would disappear into the crowd. You could never really pin him down.
People didn't know what to make of him. Some were fascinated, others uncomfortable. He wasn't a businessman. He was a presence. Something more diffuse, almost intangible.
They said he carried the wind in his lungs and water in his heart. He had inherited all of that. Not calm, but a kind of constant motion.
As he grew older, he spoke less. He often stayed alone, observing. On the balcony, watching the rooftops in the rain. Or by the water's edge, following passing boats with his gaze.
He eventually retired. Far from the city. He devoted himself to his garden.
Not a classic garden. A mix of plants, of different origins. Spices from distant lands. Flowers rarely seen. Everything grew together, without apparent order.
Spring arrived, heavy and humid. Flowers bloomed quickly, then disappeared almost as soon. The scents were rich, almost too much.
Then the seasons passed. The same gestures, the same cycles. Nothing seemed to truly change.
One day, while tidying up, a small packet of paper was found, hidden in a dried flower.
Inside, a simple sentence:
âFlowers remember.â
