After recently moving to the heart of my village, I came across a peculiar botanist whose shop was nearby. It was around the corner from the village church to be exact. He was an eccentric man who liked to do things nobody else did in the village, like watching sunsets by the canal and staying up all night reading classic novels. I never saw him drive a car - he seemed to bike everywhere; a cluster of vibrant flowers always wedged in the basket near the front of his baby blue bike. I had asked him his name once and I distinctly remember him telling me, but I could never recall exactly what he had said. I used to think his name would be something endearing and old-fashioned, like Cecil or Arthur. He seemed like that sort of man, with hair the color of buttercream and eyes the color of soil. I myself felt rather old-fashioned, despite being a woman in her thirties who never married. In that moment of comparison, I had decided to call him the daffodil man - his favorite type of flower. Whenever I saw one, I thought of him and it made me smile.

One particular rainy day I went to visit him at his quaint shop like I had done so many times before. I knocked on the flimsy door as I awaited his frivolous arrival. He stumbled across the floor, beaming with all the vivaciousness of a sunflower. His teeth were crooked as stones; yet he was, to me, one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen. I often wondered if I were in love with him. Thoughts of his abnormally thin frame and the radiance of his pale face kept me up at night. Perhaps I was merely obsessed with figuring him out, a new secret for me to uncover, something for me to do in that boring old village which I had lived in for far too many years.

“Oh, Lucy! How wonderful to see you. Do come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” The daffodil man trilled; his gentle voice interlaced with the twang of a foreign accent I did not quite recognize but found oddly familiar. I nodded approvingly, too shy to respond, my eyes scanning the tight collar of his button-down shirt, reaching the brim of his white apron, the tips of his spindly fingers soiled with compost. He stood to the side, welcoming me, his long arms tucked behind his back as he bowed slightly and humbly. As I stepped into his enchanting shop, a sharp ‘ding’ sounded in the background from the little golden bell on his door. My eyes danced around the familiar room, made entirely of limestone as I took a seat in a flower-shaped chair and matching table. Bright rays of sunshine flooded in from every nook and cranny, little fairy and gnome ornaments scattered about the place. It was kitschy, but I liked it: glass dragonfly figurines sat on sticks, and unnaturally large, vine-like leaves and flowers sprouting out across the way. I imagined I was a princess in a fairytale, the daffodil man my prince, or perhaps an elf, or maybe even a sprite.

 He beamed, placing a steaming cup of tea on the table. Milk and sugar soon followed. He then served me a plate of odd pancake-like biscuits covered in powdered sugar and embedded with a plethora of raisins. “Welsh cakes.” He cooed; his hands folded neatly on the smooth wooden table; like napkins. “I’ve never had one before.” I exclaimed. Cautiously, as if they could be poisoned, I delicately lifted an odd treat off the plate, afraid it could crumble in my grasp at any moment. I raised it to my rosy lips and bit, tasting a wonderful blend of dough and sugar colliding on my tongue. “Delicious” I murmured as I chewed, covering my mouth with my hand. “How do you make these?”

The daffodil man blushed slightly, clearly flattered. “Well, it’s me mam’s recipe, actually I’m not really allowed to tell anyone, but if you come ‘round again tomorrow, perhaps we could bake a batch together.” I blinked, realizing after almost a year, he was asking me on a date.

 My cheeks betrayed me by turning a scarlet red. I nodded yes, unable to meet his curious eyes. I had finally gained the courage to admit it to myself: I was in love. I felt so elated, yet I restrained myself from reaching for his large, gentle hands and kissing the side of his pasty cheek. I maintained my composure while trying to conceal my ever-growing fondness for my daffodil man.

“Wonderful! He exclaimed with perfectly clasped hands. “What time shall we meet?” 

I scribbled numbers on a napkin, passing it to him across the table. “Call me anytime.”

He graciously took the napkin, placing it into his breast pocket.

I heard the village church bells chime four as I finished my last bite of the Welsh cake.  “I really must be going.” I said sympathetically, getting up from my chair and walking toward the door. He nodded as he followed behind me, his hands still perfectly clasped together, oyster-like. The fairy lights made his eyes shimmer like gold, gleaming with fertility and life.

***

I anxiously sat by my phone, waiting and waiting for the daffodil man to call, watching the sun drift down into the hills, leaving me behind without an answer. Tears welled up in my eyes as moments turned into hours, which then blended into days which stretched into weeks. I sat hopelessly and alone, feeling the feathered tail of my beloved cat against my elbow. I wiped the tears away, standing up to take the familiar path I had walked so many times before, determined to find answers.

I stood before his little green shop once more, knocking on the door and waiting for the strange man to pop out like he normally did. He did not come out of his tiny burrow. Small tears molested my flushed cheeks. It was all in my head; I was nothing more than a friend. And this realization of heartbreak racked my chest like a shaken shelf. Startled by a faint tap on my shoulder, I turned around. Thinking it was the daffodil man, I instantly perked up. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for your call. I was so worried something was wrong.”

“You lookin’ for Charlie, love?” A foreign voice replied. Charlie. Was that the daffodil man’s name? It couldn’t be. He must have been talking about someone else. “Who’s Charlie?” I asked naively, as if in denial.

“The previous owner of this shop,” the voice replied.

“Charlie?” I questioned, rolling the name on my tongue like salt on a wound. “On the short side? Blond? Brown eyes?” I asked, describing the man I loved. “Always rides a blue bike with flowers in the front. He had a special fondness for daffodils?”

The stranger nodded. He was a tall, tanned man wearing a plaid hat. “That’s Charlie Griffiths. He’s gone now, darlin’.” The man said apologetically.

“Gone?” I wondered frantically, trying to control my emotions.

“His shop closed. It went out of business. Not enough customers to keep it afloat. Had to turn it over to the bank, he did. Nobody wants to go to a botanists’ shop anymore when you can go to a garden center in the city.

“Where did he go?” I could still see his fairy lights twinkling from inside the shop. They had not been taken down yet. I searched the bare room my eyes scanning the ceiling, imagining my daffodil man upstairs in his flat brewing tea. The stranger paused to think. “I couldn’t tell ya that, girly.”

“Oh.” I whimpered pathetically. My world had come crashing down. Defeated and broken, I made my way back home. The realization I would never again see my daffodil man paralyzed me with despair, as if the icy chill of winter had frozen my heart.

***

The vanilla-colored envelope had my name printed neatly on the front, and I could swear I saw the faintest smudge of dirt on it. My thin fingers trembled as I opened the envelope, I knew it was from him. My snow-white cat purred hypnotically in my lap as I carefully read each word, over and over, like a rhythm to a song my heart once sang. By the time the sun had set behind the church steeple, I knew my reply to the letter. I smiled glancing out my cottage window. Frozen icicles were melting much like my heart.

It was a three-hour drive to the Welsh coast, but with my impatient hunger it seemed like ten. My destination ended with the sound of delicate, metallic wind chimes blowing in the breeze next to a humble stone cottage with a thatched roof which matched the address in my letter. A forest of sunny daffodils both white and yellow swayed in the spring breeze. A picket fence trailed around its perimeter. I carefully bent down to inhale the sweet fragrance of a daffodil, a smile dancing upon my face. And then I heard a delicate whisper beside my ear. “Hello, cariad.”