Chapter 1: Echeveria
The bell rang.
Everyone stood out of their seats immediately. Bags zipped. Chairs scraped. Someone knocked over a pencil case and didn’t pick it up. Everyone was in a hurry.
But Era was already gone.
She mastered this already. Books in bag: three seconds. Bag on shoulder: one second. She needed to be in the hallway before the bell’s echo died to avoid any interactions.
“Bye, Era!” someone might have said.
Or maybe they said “Ira.”
Or maybe they were talking to someone else entirely.
It didn’t matter. She was already halfway down the street, walking the same path she’d walked every day for two years. Past the convenience store with the cat that always looked grumpy. Past the telephone pole covered in job posters. Past the spot where the sidewalk was cracked in a zigzag pattern.
Fifteen minutes exactly, and she was home.
Except it wasn’t home. Not technically.
“Baobao’s Flower” said the sign, in grandmother’s curly handwriting that Era couldn’t bear to change.
The bell chimed when she opened the door, and she smiles every time because she thinks it's greeting her.
“I’m back,” Era announced to no one.
Well. No human.
The ferns rustled in their corner. The succulents sat fat and happy in the window. The spider plant—Gerald—dangled his babies toward the floor, showing off again.
“Yes, Gerald, very impressive,” Era said, dropping her bag behind the counter. “You’re extremely fertile. We get it.”
She tied on her apron (green, covered in soil stains, perfect) and got to work.
Water the ferns. Check the orchids. Trim the dead leaves off the pothos. Rotate the jade plant so it didn’t grow lopsided.
Her grandmother used to say plants were better than people.
“They tell you exactly what they need,” she’d said. “Droopy leaves? Water. Yellow leaves? Too much water. Brown tips? Humidity. They don’t keep secrets.”
Era agreed. Plants made sense. You gave them what they needed, and they grew. Simple.
She was misting the calatheas when the bell chimed again.
Era looked up.
A boy stood in the doorway.
Tall. Messy hair. Uniform shirt untucked. Tie loose. He looked around the shop with wild eyes, breathing hard.
“Um,” he said. “Hi.”
Era pushed her glasses up her nose. He did the same.
They both paused.
“Hi,” Era said finally.
They stared at each other.
He looked at the plants. She looked at him. He looked panicked. She was used to that. People often panicked in plant shops. Too many choices. Too much responsibility.
“Can I… just… stand here for a minute?” he asked.
Era blinked. “In the shop?”
“Yes.”
“Right there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Era said.
She went back to misting the calatheas. He stood by the door. She misted. He breathed. The shop was quiet except for the little psssht psssht of the spray bottle.
After two minutes, his breathing slowed down.
After three minutes, he stopped staring at the wall.
After four minutes, he actually looked at the plants.
“Better?” Era asked, not looking up.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“It’s okay. People hide here sometimes.”
“They do?”
“Yeah. Last week a lady hid from her book club. Week before that, a man hid from his wife.” Era moved to the next plant. “Well, I mean plants don’t judge. It’s their best quality.”
The boy laughed. Actually laughed. It sounded surprised, even to him.
“Wait…why was he hiding from his wife?” he asked through his laughter.
Era shrugged. “He said he was comparing cacti prices.”
“Cacti?”
“Yeah. He picked up three of them. Looked at them very seriously for like ten minutes each.”
Era demonstrated, holding an imaginary pot at arm’s length and squinting at it. “Kept saying things like ‘hmm, interesting spines.’”
The boy snorted. “No way.”
“I swear. Very committed to the act.” Era set down her spray bottle. “Then his phone rang. His wife, probably. He immediately put it on silent and put it in his pocket. Didn’t answer.”
“And?”
“After an hour he finally told me the truth.” Era leaned against the counter. “He gave his best friend a loan. Again. Even though the guy never paid him back the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time.”
“Oh.” The boy’s smile faded into understanding.
“Yep. She was mad. Really mad. He knew he messed up but he didn’t know how to go home and face it yet.” Era picked up the spray bottle again. “So he hid here and pretended to care about cacti.”
“Did he buy them?”
“All three. Sixty dollars in total. Most expensive hiding spot ever.”
The boy was quiet for a moment.
“Do people really just… tell you things?” he asked.
“Sometimes. When they need to.” Era looked at him. “Plants are good listeners. I just happen to be here.“
“I’m hiding from my mom,” he admitted.
“Good reason,” Era said seriously. “Moms are persistent.”
“I texted her that I wanted to apply for an arts course.” He laughed, but it sounded tired.
“Thank God I did it over text because she immediately called me. Told me to come home. Now.”
“But you’re here instead.”
“Yeah. Here instead.“
He shook his head. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear this.”
“I don’t mind.” Era set down the spray bottle. “But if you’re going to hide here, you should probably buy something. Owner policy.”
She wasn’t the owner. She was seventeen. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He looked around, overwhelmed again. “I don’t know anything about plants.”
“That’s okay. What do you need?”
“Something that won’t die immediately?”
“Good start. Realistic expectations.” Era walked over to the succulent section. She picked up a small pot with a round, chubby plant inside. Green and peaceful. “This one.”
“What is it?”
“Echeveria. Succulent. Very forgiving.”
“Forgiving,” he repeated. “I like that.”
Era grabbed a watering can and showed him. “See how the soil is dry? That’s what you want. These guys hate being drowned. Water once a week, maybe less. Poke the soil first. If it’s damp, wait.”
“Poke the soil. Got it.”
“Bright light, but not direct sun all day. They’ll get sunburned.”
The boy looked at the plant. “Plants get sunburned?”
“Everything gets sunburned with too much exposure,” Era said wisely.
He smiled. “That’s… actually deep.”
“It’s just plant care.”
“Right. Plant care.” But he was still smiling.
Era took the plant to the counter and set it down. She pulled out a small card and a pen. Her handwriting was careful and round. She wrote:
ECHEVERIA CARE
• Water: Once a week (check soil first!)
• Light: Bright, indirect
• Temperature: Room temp is fine
• It won’t change much. That’s okay. Just keep it alive.
She held it out to him.
He took it. Read it. His eyes stuck on the last line.
“It won’t change much. That’s okay,” he read aloud.
“Yeah. People always expect plants to do something dramatic. But echeverias are just… there. They stay pretty much the same.” Era wrapped the pot in brown paper. “Don’t expect too much from it. Just let it be what it is.“
They were both quiet for a moment.
“How much?” he finally asked.
“Eight dollars and sixty-four cents.”
He pulled out his wallet. Handed her a ten. She gave him change.
“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it. Not just for the plant.
“No problem.” Era watched him carefully tuck the care note into his pocket. “Come back if you need to hide again.”
He laughed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Gerald likes the company.” She pointed at the spider plant.
“Gerald?”
“The spider plant. He’s very social.”
He looked at Gerald. Gerald’s leaves swayed gently in the air from the vent.
“Hi, Gerald,” he said.
Era tried not to smile. Failed.
“See you around,” the boy said, heading for the door.
“See you.”
The bell chimed. He left.
Era stood there for a moment, holding the ten dollar bill.
She didn’t know his name. Didn’t recognize him from school, even though he wore the same uniform she did. A senior too, probably. He’d mentioned applying for an arts course, so he had to be.
She put the money in the register and went back to her plants.
But the shop felt different now. Still quiet. But less… empty.
-----
Outside, Carlos walked home slowly.
The plant sat carefully in his hands. The care note crinkled in his pocket. His phone buzzed. Probably his mom.
He didn’t check it.
For the first time all day, his chest didn’t feel tight.
At the stoplight, he pulled out the note again to read it one more time.
Afterwards, he went to fold it back up, but it slipped from his fingers. Fluttered to the ground.
“Great,” he muttered, picking it up.
As he was picking it up, he realized something was written on the back.
In that same careful handwriting:
If you need help, here’s my number :) Plant questions welcome. Other questions too, I guess.
A phone number below it.
Carlos stared at it.
Then he smiled. Really smiled.
Yeah.
He’d definitely come back.
