The Flower Man

It was cold that night. Colder than yesterday.

He pulled his coat, barely more than a rag at this point, tighter around his shoulders. He wanted to look for a better spot, or at the very least to rub his hands together in hopes of lessening the bite of the cold. But his strength had left him, after yet another day of wandering, searching, and all he could do was slouch against the wall, knees drawn up against his chest, head bowed. The wind was blowing in the small alley just as strongly as it had earlier in the streets. At least he had a scarf to protect him from some of the cold.

It was only early November. The nights had yet to become colder. Winter was an unforgiving season.

He thought about tomorrow. Experience told him it would be no better than today, and he found himself sinking further into the cold, hard pavement.

He had no home, and the only name he answered to these days had been given to him by an old woman, who smelled like warmth and reminded him of a willow tree. Old and bent, but with an air of strength. He had only seen her once. She lived alone on the outskirts of a small village, and he had taken a letter to the post office for her. He never learned her name, and it had cost him nothing to do her that small favor, as spring had just started blooming a few weeks prior and the distance was not so great for someone as used to walking as he was. But he'd never forgotten the gratitude in her eyes and the smile on her lips as she'd given him his name, along with a single flower from the small pot near her front door. The letter had been for her son, who lived far away and had yet to hear about his father's passing less than a day ago. The priest and the coach had come and left, and no one had paid the widow a second thought.

He smiled at the memory. He could always recognize a kind soul, and that woman had been kind. So he had kept the name, even if it did leave people scratching their heads in bewilderment.

He slowly got to his feet. That small break would have to do for now. He had a long way ahead of him, and no rest would come in that chilly winter night anyway.

The town was quiet, and he briefly wondered if it was as empty in the day as it was under the stars. The only sound that could be heard was the howling of the wind.

It wasn't long before his eyes fell upon a bus stop. He quickly made his way towards it, hoping the map that was sure to be there was not too damaged. Relief filled him as he got near it – it was perfectly readable from behind the crude scratches someone had made in the plastic. He checked the names of the nearest streets, looked back at the map and tried his best to memorize the route. He had been going the wrong way, he realized, and would have to take a very roundabout course through the town if he wanted to get to the train station. He wouldn't be taking the train, of course. But he would ask for directions.

He took one last look at the map and headed towards the next intersection. When he had first started this journey, every new town had given him hope that he'd come closer to finding her. But after all these long years that hope had diminished, and often he'd find himself wondering if he's still truly searching for her, or just wandering aimlessly simply because it was all he could do.

It had been ten years since he'd last seen his daughter. Five since he had started looking for her. His first stop had been the city in which she'd lived with her new husband. Well, he hadn't been very new by then. And they'd moved, the neighbours had said. To a more rural area, so that the kids wouldn't have to grow up in such a big city. She'd been expecting after all. Expecting! His little girl!

He remembered feeling both happy and so terribly, terribly devastated. He was going to be a grandfather. His sweet daughter had started her own family, and he hadn't known. He'd had to learn from her neighbours, her ex-neighbours, and he couldn't even hold her and tell her how happy he was, how sorry he was!

Is.

His thoughts were interrupted by the first sound this evening not caused by the wind or distant car alarms. He thought he heard a voice.

He looked around. At first he didn't see anything, and he almost turned to continue on his way, if not for the tiny movement he saw with the corner of his eye.

It was a dog. A sad, scrawny looking mutt, who let out another soft whine in what almost looked like disappointment and walked to a nearby trash can, sniffing around hopefully. Nothing. Life was unforgiving as ever.

Something stirred in his chest. He could do nothing for the dog, nor for himself, but it was a shame to turn down the chance for company on a cold night such as that.

"Hey."

The dog looked at him. Its tail wagged, two, three times, then it stopped. It sniffed the ground one more time.

"Hey, come here."

It didn't, but he wasn't offended. He went to it instead, bending down and holding out his hand. The dog seemed to hesitate, but it did not run away. He put his hand on its head, and after meeting no resistance, he rubbed it lightly behind one ear.

"There you go. That's a good boy. Girl. Good girl."

He felt himself smile. The dog seemed to like the attention. Not quite as much as she would've liked some food, but it was something.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. He had once again lost himself in thought of the last kind soul he'd met – a young man that had given him his scarf. It had been a while. He couldn't stop smiling.

"Would you like to come with me?"

The dog raised her head at his voice.

"How about it? It won't be a better life, but it won't be as lonely, either. We might even find a home some day."

The dog just looked at him, uncomprehending.

"They call me Fennel. Well, no one does, but they would if they knew me. It's not a real name, I know. I think it's a plant. Well, it doesn't really matter. The person I'm looking for won't want to call me by any name, anyway. She'll call me "daddy". I think you'll like her."

His smile widened. His eyes stung. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.