In a winter city where glass sweats and breath turns to fog, two strangers keep finding one another in the greenhouse's humid hush. He tends plants with quiet, earth-bitten fingers. She comes to thaw, to forget the way a foreign alphabet can feel like a locked gate. Their languages do not meet, but their hands do, building a lexicon on skin—two taps for yes, a thumb's slow circle for again, a palm pressed to a sternum for truth. When time threatens to unspool them, they stake their promise in soil, in growing things that do not care what words you speak, only how gently you touch.
The first time she steps into the conservatory, the air is soft as bread and her glasses fog. The city outside is all grit and angles, the kind of cold that pinches until you forget the edges of yourself. In here, her face blooms damp. A man kneels beside a tin basin, pruning a fig tree with the careful economy of someone who has broken things and learned from it.
He looks up. His smile is brief, almost a reflex, but his eyes hold steady, the kind that will wait. She lifts her hands, apologizing in a language he doesn't know, for intruding, for dripping on the tiles. He answers with his own, a small tilt of his head and a gesture toward the bench by the radiator.
Her coat crackles as she peels it off. The radiator hisses. Their words stay in their throats; their hands begin to speak. She returns the next day, then the next, each time trading the hush of the glass dome for the grammar of leaves and water.
He shows her where the soil crusts, how to break the surface with her fingers so the roots can breathe. He points to a moth like a sliver of paper on a begonia. She nods, even as she doesn't know his words, because the warmth in his voice tells her they are not dangerous words. She learns the names on little markers—Latin, then a local name, then something else someone scratched with a dull pencil.
When she mimics one and gets it wrong, he laughs, not at, but with, palms up, a friendly surrender. He takes her hand and places her fingertips at a juncture on the stem, presses lightly until she feels the node. She inhales. The instructions slide through their skin.
They invent a language built from touch and emphasis. When she asks for time, she taps her wrist and raises her brows; he angles his palm flat and swipes across it in a patient sunrise arc. When she is being funny, she looks from under her lashes and lets her knuckles graze his sleeve; he feigns offense by covering his heart and staggering two steps back. To say yes, he taps her knuckles twice; to say no, once and then a gentle press.
Again is a thumb tracing a circle on her palm. Enough is his palm hovering above hers, the warmth a weight without contact. They exchange names by writing them where skin is thin—his on the inside of her elbow, block letters that curve to fit her: Luka. Hers on the pad of his thumb, a sound that tastes like wind: Mei.
When he mispronounces, her name becomes laughter that does not need fixing. Sometimes he finds her on a bench with her travel book open, not reading. He doesn't ask where her words go when they leave her alone. Instead he folds a leaf into her hand and presses her fingers closed around it.
He has a cut on his thumb from the fig; she notices the bright mouth of it when he doesn't. She touches his wrist to stop him and holds out her own hand, asking. He offers the injury like a confession. She tears the corner of a napkin from her pocket, a warm square with a coffee stain, and winds it around his thumb, tugging until it bites a little.
His breath stutters. He leans, not to kiss, not yet, but to rest his forehead against the curve of her shoulder, the seam where body remembers a child's reassurance. The greenhouse ticks and breathes around them. When he lifts his head, he draws a small circle on her collarbone: again.
Outside, the city is a grit of salt and the glitter of old ice. He leaves the conservatory keys on a hook and gestures toward his own jacket—come. They walk under strings of brittle lights someone left up after the festival. Vendors are packing up paper lanterns that look like moons ready to be lowered.
At a stall, he buys chestnuts, splits the bag between his palms, and places half in hers. The shells are hot enough to sting; she hisses through her teeth and he laughs, then reaches to blow across her fingers, the heat of his breath meeting her skin in a small, private weather. When a street musician plays a song whose words neither of them understand, he steps behind her and touches his fingers to her hips, asking—a push, a pull, their bodies learning the same meter. They sway in a bubble of warmth in an ocean of cold, inventing choreography from the way they guess about one another and guess correctly.
There are details he does not tell her because there are no common words for them. His brother's calls he declines, the tidy slices of obligations he rearranges. The cheap room he returns to with the heater that rattles like teeth. She carries her own secrets in the slant of her shoulders: the letter tucked into the back of her book, the one that says not-yet-yes but is darling to someone else's mother.
Instead, they show one another the things that have learned to keep still. He takes her to the wintering pond where ice makes a skin and water breathes beneath, he knocks with his knuckles and waits to hear the dull reply. She leads him to the bus depot with the big map of arteries and gives him a coin to press into the route he dreams of, which he presses into a loop that brings him back here regardless. He touches his throat, then his chest, then the air between them—his version of truth.
She answers by pressing his palm flat against the center of her sternum, where his touch fits as if a key were being tried. When the notice appears on the conservatory door—renovation: closed two weeks—she is the one to see it first. The word stabs from a language she can read. She looks back at the fig tree that has learned the shape of his hands and thinks of roots disturbed.
She finds him sweeping sand from the tiled path and lifts the paper like a strange bird with an injured wing. He squints at the letters, nods slow, then frowns at the dates she points to. Her time here thins with them. She tries to say soon in his language, but it falls like a coin no one reaches for.
He takes her wrist and turns her palm up, writes numbers there with his fingertip—the days—but then he stops and shakes his head. He presses his open hand to her cheek and then holds it out empty in the air, the most eloquent expression of can you stay? she has ever seen. Mei lifts his hand to her lips and lets the warmth of her breath answer the things she can't fix.
They do not waste the days. He shows her how to take a cutting, the slow surgery of choosing where a life can split and still go on. He makes a paper pot from a newspaper, each fold firmer than the last, a small house for a fragile thing. She fills it with soil, her fingers black up to the moons of her nails.
He gives her the blade, and she looks at him once, a nervous question, before she places it. Sap beads at the wound like tears; he brushes it away with a thumb and nods. He takes the severed green and tucks it into its paper home, presses the soil with a knuckle the way he has pressed words into her hand. When he lifts the pot and offers it to her, it is both gift and grammar: we belong to this care.
She takes it, surprised at how light it feels. He touches his chest and then the tiny plant and then taps her wrist twice. Yes. The last evening, they end up back at the bench by the humming radiator.
The conservatory is emptied of visitors and sound except for the drip of a hose forgotten somewhere. Outside the glass, fat flakes begin to fall, listless as ash. He sits too close to be polite and wraps his scarf around both their throats, a single circuit of warmth binding them. She puts the paper pot on the floor between their boots and scuffs a little moat around it with her heel, a child's protection spell.
He lifts her hand without looking and spreads her fingers, traces the lines like a map he has half memorized. Then he turns her palm down and curls her hand into a fist, encasing his fingertip where the pulse is strongest. He looks up. She knows what he is saying, even without the words: I will learn you by heart.
She presses his knuckles to her mouth, the smallest coronation. They sit like that long after their skin has forgotten to be shy. When the doors lock for renovation in the morning, he walks her to the bus that will take her toward the airport. Her suitcase wheels stutter over seams in the sidewalk; she adjusts, he steadies, their gait a joint invention.
At the edge of the platform, she sets the paper pot into his palm and shakes her head when he tries to give it back. No, she articulates with her fingers, her thumb brushing his knuckle slow: again. You keep this one. She touches her chest, then taps the paper pot, then makes a circle on her palm.
When I come back. He tucks the tiny thing inside his coat like contraband. He writes on the fogging window of the bus with his finger—letters she knows aren't hers but can feel anyway while she watches them silver, then blur, then disappear. The bus pulls away.
He holds one hand out to the empty air until cold makes sense again. Without her, the days move like carts pushed down a hallway, a bit of clatter and then quiet. Luka waters the cutting too little and then too much, worries, adjusts. He talks to it, words that don't need translating because the plant only listens to tone.
He remembers the shape of Mei's hand around soil, the way her smile arrived sideways and then took the whole room. She is a tender bruise he presses, enough to feel alive. Mei wakes in a bed that is not hers with light from a different latitude in the curtains and thinks of the radiator's hiss, how it said stay in a language without promises. She keeps forgetting and then remembering that goodbye is a door you have to walk through again and again until it opens into something else.
On the third morning, she finds one of his chestnuts at the bottom of her coat pocket, glossy as a warm eye. She holds it so hard the roundness imprints. Spring makes a rumor of itself around the edges—drips, green in seams. When the conservatory opens, the air inside is heavy with new varnish and old chlorophyll.
He is there early, before the first visitors, and the sound of the door latch still makes his shoulders jump. He moves through the rooms touching things back into themselves. At the fig, he stops. The cutting is no longer a cutting; it has decided to be a plant.
He thinks of her thumb on his skin, the unspeakable vow of it. He doesn't know if or when her route will curve back. He knows only where to wait. He sets the plant on the bench by the radiator and looks up as the door breathes open and someone steps in, glasses fogging, coat damp, a small bag bumping her knee, a silhouette he knows like the inside of his hands.
Or maybe it is a stranger who will become a question. He smooths his palms together, feeling the sentence gather where skin meets skin, and turns toward the doorway with both hands open.
