She was a waitress at a local tea shop. One that had gained some form of popularity recently for its delicious tea. It was said that an older man, a man named Mushi, who he had eventually come across in his days at the tea shop, was the reason the tea was brewed so well. However, the reason that he found himself going back to the quaint little tea shop tucked away in the lower ring wasn't for the delicious tea, but for the young woman who worked there most afternoons. Though, again, it wasn't for the reasons that one might expect.
It wasn't to say that she wasn't charming, but relatively young as he was, he was still far too old to be chasing after a young woman in the spring of her youth. Instead, it was because she was the sort of person that others found endlessly fascinating, and he was no exception. He had first caught a glimpse of her when she played the guzheng on the floor of the small tea shop. He had only managed to catch the last bit of her performance, but he could see the way that the audience was entranced by her. He had been stuck in a bout of writer's block for weeks at this point, but something about the tail end of her performance had sparked something in him. He had gone home and written a poem about her. Not quite what he, or his publisher for that matter, was hoping for, but it was something. Since then, he would return to that tea shop whenever he felt the urge, in hopes that seeing the most intriguing young woman in town would spark some kind of inspiration in him once again.
She was popular with the regulars and for good reason. What drew most of the customers in about her initially was undoubtedly her appearance. The young woman was beautiful. That was merely a fact, but once they were drawn in, they stayed not for her beauty but for conversation with her. The bright young lady was refreshing to be around with her warm smiles and well-rounded knowledge. There was no topic that she could not speak to. From poetry to government policy to cooking to the latest fashions, the young woman seemed to know a little bit about everything. And even when she didn't already know about the topic, she was a quick study. Pai sho enthusiasts would pay to have her sit down and play against them while she was on shift, poets to speak with her for inspiration, even an eccentric inventor of sorts had sought her out to collect her opinion. At the center of it all, was this beautiful, bright, young woman, who met each and every one of them with a smile and the sort of confidence that boosted the confidence of those around her.
It wasn't long before the proposals came flooding in. A rich scion who claimed to be the first to do so, an intelligent, young government official, a handsome, hardworking soldier— the list of appealing bachelors didn't end. Each and every day, more would appear at the door of the small tea shop to ask for her hand in marriage. To the point where the owner demanded that they come inside and order tea if they were going to loiter by the shop just to see her. Yet, with each suitor more appealing than the last, she turned all of them down with a graceful bow and an eloquent apology. The young woman was a sensation in her own right. It wasn't long before the young women from the upper echelons began to despise her. Yet none would dare to raise a hand against her in public. Not with the amount of adoration she received from all of her suitors, rejected or not.
Essentially speaking, she was untouchable.
He had the pleasure of speaking to her just once, when the rain was heavy enough that the shop wasn't bustling with patrons as it normally was. On that stormy day, her hair was braided into the half-up, half-down style she favored and fixed with a comb embellished with hydrangeas. "Hana, isn't it?"
She smiled at him. "Yes, you have quite a good memory, don't you Mr. Liao?" His eyes widened a little at the realization that he had never introduced himself before, and she continued as though she could read his mind, "Ah, I asked Mr. Fu for your name once. Perhaps after your third visit? I noticed that you have a penchant for sitting by yourself and looking rather lost in thought, so I wondered if you might be a writer." She giggled. "Imagine Mr. Fu's face when he confirmed just as much."
"How did you know?" he found himself asking. "How did you know that I'm a writer?"
She hummed thoughtfully then as she minded the tea. "Something about your air?" She frowned a little at her explanation and hummed again. "You see- my parents were merchants, and among our regulars was a man who came to buy ink in bulk. Out of curiosity, I asked him once, nosy child that I was, how one person goes through that much ink in a month, and I remember the way that he laughed and replied, 'If you think I go through a lot of ink, you should see how much paper I go through in a month.' He told me later that he was a writer."
She took the tea off the fire. "Something about you reminds me of him a little, is all."
He was at a loss for words in the face of someone who was so perceptive that she didn't even know how she divined such knowledge about others at a glance. She ducked her head into a slight bow. "I meant no offense, Mr. Liao. But if I did cause any offense, I sincerely apologize."
He shook his head and corrected hastily, "No, no. No offense at all. I was merely impressed by you."
Her shoulders relaxed in an instant. "So long as I didn't offend you. Though, I've certainly done nothing worthy of awe."
"What do you mean?"
"Hm? I'm just a waitress in a tea shop, I serve tea and snacks, and listen to our patrons talk. If anything, I'm still just the same curious, nosy little girl I was ten years ago. It's our patrons that do the noteworthy, awe-inspiring things. Mr. Hsu works the farm that supplies the produce for Mr. and Mrs. Ting's grocery stand, which feeds a majority of the members of the area. Mr. Fu and his colleagues convene every day to debate and develop government policy. Mrs. Hwa is a seamstress who makes clothes out of the cloth that Ms. Qing and Ms. Guo weave. Ms. Yu and Mr. Tsang are dedicated to the arts and the preservation of important people's visages and the beautiful scenery of the present, while Mr. Qu and Mr. Kwok are soldiers that defend the area. And you, Mr. Liao, are an author." She placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him and smiled. "In the face of so many people who create and do such amazing things, I find it doubtful that I do anything noteworthy."
It was then that a group of regulars, a trio of low-ranking officials, called out, "Hana, we're here!"
She turned to the door. "Ah, Mr. Fu, Mr. Liu, Mr. Xiao. Good afternoon! The rain is quite something today, isn't it? Please sit down and take a moment to warm up, I'll be out with your usual shortly." She cast a smile in his direction and excused herself quietly before heading to the back of the store.
"Hana, could we get some soup as well?" Mr. Liu called.
She poked her head out of the kitchen. "Of course, coming right up!"
He was in awe of this young woman who hardly took note of her impact on the people around her, and instead saw so much in those who she interacted with. How modest could a single person be? Surely, it was all just an act? And yet, her confusion felt so genuine.
Not too long after she delivered the tea and soup to the trio, Mushi came to take over and Hana prepared to leave when the door swung open once again and the other young tea shop worker appeared.
"Uncle, is Hana still here?"
The young woman's azure eyes seemed to light up at the sight of the young man by the door with a dark scar over a good half of his face. The corners of her lips tugged up into a small, sweet smile. It was nothing like the bright, friendly smiles that she often cast towards others. There was something about this one that felt exceedingly special despite the fact that it was faint enough that he wondered if anyone else who wasn't observing her quite as closely would notice.
The young man flushed at the sight, evidently catching the small shifts in her expression, as she walked up to him. "I am. Did you come all this way to pick me up, Lee?"
"I thought you might've forgotten your umbrella this morning, is all," the young man grumbled, eyes flickering to the side as a faint pink tinge crept onto his cheeks.
Meanwhile the trio whistled and cooed. "Good going, Lee."
"Yeah, glad you took our advice to heart!" another chimed in.
"That's one smooth move you've got there, kid!"
"Advice?" Hana asked the young man with a curious tilt of her head before turning to the trio. "Gentlemen?"
"Nothing to worry over, Hana. Isn't that right, Lee?" The trio winked at the young man.
Hana laughed lightheartedly. "I think that I'll be the judge of that. Have a nice day, gentlemen. I'll see you tomorrow."
"You too, Hana!" the trio called back as she and the young man left the store.
He heard her giggle when the door closed behind them. "Coming all the way here just to pick me up? Who are you, and what have you done with Lee?"
The young man adamantly repeated his excuse from before. "I just wanted to make sure you had an umbrella."
She giggled. "So you only brought one with you?"
"I-!"
"Well, you were right— I didn't bring one with me. So will you share your's with me?"
When he walked out of the store, he found them, side-by-side under the umbrella. Her eyes shone as she smiled and laughed at the young man, who grumbled something in return with a flush despite his deep frown while they trekked through the rain. As the sun peeked through the clouds just a bit, casting golden rays of light onto the street, she drew a little closer to the young man and slipped her hand into his. The scene was picturesque, to say the least.
That night, when he got back to his apartment, he sat down and wrote the story of a young woman who worked in a quaint tea shop where, despite having captured the adoration of countless suitors, fell in love with the grouchy young man who worked alongside her.
It was a vague tale, more a collection of chapters from different perspectives all focused on this one particular tea shop than anything else, but the words would not stop flowing from him. He wrote and wrote without stopping. Finally, with neither any paper, nor ink, nor words left, he submitted his manuscript and, for the first time in a long while, he slept until he could sleep no longer.
When his editor came to ask what the novel was called, there was only one answer that came to mind— Flower in the Rain.