#flowersandcigs

Pictures of the sprouting lives in a little clay pot are captured and stored away in their mind — day by day, as the incongruous mess of petals turned into a colorful forest of flowers.

Timir feels themself grow and bloom alongside their small friends — each one with a personality and character of their own, even when they're still so young. Asha, the smallest of the bunch, loves to tilt its head a bit to the side when the sun comes up; and Alina, its younger sibling, would hum a low tune whenever the wind blows its way.

The plants drink from their hand, spring up and sway around as a thank you. Timir never thinks plants owe them anything, but seeing how appreciative they are warms them up.

Sometimes, they would feel like this is their raison d'etre.

Plants always grow so fast. With how intelligible their singing is now, it’s almost hard to believe they weren’t even alive just a few days ago.

Youthful and strong, they are ready to leave.

“You will meet a new friend today.” Timir says, and the song stops. “It’s okay. I won’t be far.”

…

The door locks when they push it closed. The faded gray corridor looks almost yellow in the sunlight, and the clay pot in their hands feels warm. Timir doesn't come out much — there is usually nothing out here for them to do. 

The building feels empty, like they were the only resident around, and it looks depleted of life despite how new it is. Maybe, Timir thinks, this is normal.

Long hallway of concrete and wood is interrupted by a pair of metal doors of the elevator. The gray rectangle feels cold against the back of their hand, and a green vine on their left arm shrinks and unblooms. Past the elevator and the countless doors is a set of white marble stairs shaded in faint yellow leading up and down so far their eyes almost couldn't follow to its ends.

But Timir only has to go one floor up.

Bright light reflects off of the silver railings while making no effort to make the metal look less cold. Timir firms both their hands on the clay pot and puts their foot down. Each step makes a sound that echoes over the one before. Steady rhythm of thumps makes up a monotonous melody.

…

The scene in front of them is exactly like that of the floor below. If not for the numbers plastered on each door they would not be able to tell they aren't going back to their room.

Timir stops at the door directly above their own and knocks.

Between the shuffling sounds and the taps from beyond the door, Timir can feel anticipation exude out from the flowers in their hands. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement.

A click and the door opens.

"Hi…" His eyes narrow a bit as he pauses. "Timir."

They smile. "Yes, and. Sorry for disturbing, but, uh, I wanted to give you this."

Rym looks confused as they stretch their arms out, showing him the flowers.

"Your smoke." They offer.