A Freesia on My Doorstep - TO BE PUBLISHED UNDER PAPERINK IMPRINTS

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Forget-me-not: Do Not Forget Me

FOR THE FIRST time in two years, there was no freesia on his doorstep. Dalfon could hardly believe his eyes when he noticed.

Although he was very displeased when the event began occurring, he eventually found himself expecting the flower every morning. And now that there was nothing in front of his feet, he felt his heart sink.

After a brief moment of thinking, Dalfon jogged to a nearby flower shop at the corner of an intersection.

"I want to buy one forget-me-not, please," he told the shopkeeper.

"Would you like me to arrange the bouquet, sir?"

"No, I just need one flower, not one bouquet of forget-me-nots."

The shopkeeper stared at him for a second before he took one flower from the shop's big bouquet of forget-me-nots.

After thoroughly analyzing what had happened the previous day, Dalfon presumed one thing: That the blonde-haired ghost frequenting his office is, in fact, in love with him. And that punch, was a confession.

The mere thought of it sends chills down his spine. He was not a fan of romance, in the first place. And now, he finds himself being loved by someone of the same sex!?

He wanted to ignore it. He wanted to forget it. Yet when he found no freesia on his doorstep this morning, he felt uneasy as if something was missing in his daily life.

What was usually there was absent all of a sudden. It was like getting used to being with someone and then they just leave you without warning.

Dalfon gently set the forget-me-not on the freesia's place as he tried to deny that he missed the presence of the flower on his doorstep.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a smile almost crept into his lips. Almost, because when he realized that the flower wasn't a freesia but the forget-me-not he himself placed on the same spot, he slammed the front door shut.

Dalfon ate his breakfast while scowling at his kitchen walls. He drove his black roadster to work with the same daggers in his look.

He was mad, mad.

Upon entering the high-rise building of Asterisk Films, silence ensued. Expecting that he'd only hear the rhythmic clinking of his shoe heels against the tiled floor, when an employee coughed, his head snapped in his direction with his eyes bearing a deathly glare.

This Dalfon is definitely not the Dalfon anyone would dare speak to.

"Loyola!" he called as soon as he sat on his swivel chair.

The Story Department Secretary hastily entered his office. "Y-Yes, Sir Ananta?"

Dalfon took all the screenplays submitted to his desk and threw them on the floor. Lizelle was more than stunned that she wasn't able to act.

"What are you doing standing there?" His voice rose. "Pick those up and burn them all! I will write a screenplay myself!"

Lizelle was pulled back to her senses and she picked up the scattered white folders on the floor. Surprisingly, she wasn't shuddering.

'If you just shouted all the way, she wouldn't be shuddering like that, you know?'

Dalfon closed his eyes and slammed a closed fist on his desk as the ghost's remark echoed in his mind. Lizelle accidentally dropped a few screenplays due to the shock brought by the sound. He gave her a blank, emotionless stare in return.

Lizelle gulped in nervousness and then picked up the white folders faster. Without saying anything more, she left the room and closed the door quietly.

Dalfon loosened his tie and ruffled his hair angrily. He turned his swivel chair to face the midnight blue curtains and then sighed.

During his lunch break, he sat in the dim part of the Clover Café. He ate his meal while keeping his sullen face intact. No one dared to sit at the tables beside his.

ANOTHER DAY PASSED by and he still found no freesia on his doorstep. Dalfon squatted in front of the almost-wilted forget-me-not flower and picked it up.

He kept his gaze on its petals as he said, "Don't forget me . . . please . . . come back."

When nothing happened, he repeated, "Don't forget me, please. . . ."

And then, "I miss your presence. . . . Don't forget me, please."

"But you forgot about me."

From the petals, Dalfon's gaze shifted toward the black suede shoes owned by someone who appeared in front of him.

Slowly, his eyes traveled upwards.

The person was wearing slim black jeans. In his right hand were the three freesias in absence, and his left was kept behind his back. His posture was that of a true gentleman.

"You. . . ." Dalfon stood up and faced the blonde-haired ghost directly for the first time.

The hazel orbs met the blue ones, and Dalfon suddenly dropped onto his knees. His hands held his pounding head as he let out an agonizing scream.

The young Dalfon's foot was freed from being stuck with one powerful pull. However, the impact of their fall on the hanging bridge caused the rotten ropes to continue breaking apart. "Run! Run and don't look back!"

"No! No!! I— I won't— I won't listen to you!" he cried out in response to his vision.

He wanted to see who that person was. He wanted to know who saved him from an incident he had no idea about.

'When did that happen? When did I wear a red shirt? I never wore red! Red was an unlucky color for me!'

He wanted to find the answers to his inquiries. He wanted to know who the person was in his life.

"Run! Run and don't look back!"

He could still hear the other person's voice echoing in his mind, yet the images in his vision were blurry and incomprehensible.

His younger self was staring at the other person but he couldn't make out their features. They were wearing white long-sleeved polo and slim black jeans.

The only feature he could clearly capture was the silver piercing of cherry blossom he had seen when he first experienced this kind of episode at the Clover Café.

The words echoed once more. "Run! Run and don't look back!"

And he cried, "We— we'll run together! I won't leave you! I won't. . . ."

Egan instantaneously let go of the freesias in his hand. He knelt beside Dalfon who was crying his eyes out and enveloped him in a comforting hug.

Surprisingly, for the first time in ten years, the ghost witnessed himself not phasing through the living man.

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