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# Chapter 136: Flowers of the Heart
Eun-seo watched the azaleas and forsythia blossoms in her grandmother’s garden blush in the morning light, and finally, she let herself breathe. The river rolled its pebbles with a sound that tickled her ears, and her fingertips trembled along the texture of the letter’s paper. Min-jun’s eyes came to mind—she could read them now, understand what they held when their gazes met. Every time she felt his hand tremble over hers, the same tremor began in her wrist and traveled through her entire body.
The garden’s fragrance brushed her nose—subtle as lilac, yet undeniable.
Walking along the riverbank, Eun-seo unfolded the letter. Min-jun’s voice echoed in her ears. Each word reconstructed itself in his tone, and the sentences, read this way, answered in her chest with the exact same rhythm. The river’s voice, the words on the page, and her own heartbeat formed a single melody.
His hand.
When the riverside pebbles glittered like jewels in the morning sun, she felt again the moment his hand had wrapped around hers. The warmth of sweat between their fingers. The small circle traced by his thumb. She understood now what it meant.
Eun-seo sat on the garden bench.
As if the flowing river were her only audience, she began to read. With each sentence, her heart quickened. The memory of Min-jun’s eyes following her, the thrill when that gaze found hers. The garden flowers released a deeper fragrance. Spring was deepening. No—spring was deepening within her.
“His hand was trembling,” she whispered.
Her murmur dissolved into the river’s sound. Every time she felt that tremor, she trembled too. Whether it was fear or excitement, or whether they were the same thing—she no longer needed to distinguish.
She set the letter down and closed her eyes.
Azalea scent still pressed against her nose, the river’s voice still flowed through her ears, and his hand’s warmth lingered at her fingertips. Every sense pointed to one person. In a spring garden, her heart was finally blooming.
His trembling hand. His trembling heart. She read the letter to the sound of the river, her own heart becoming one with its words. His voice caressed her mind as she walked the riverbank. When his eyes met hers, she felt what his heart felt, understood what his heart knew. His hand wrapped around hers—she felt it all again, understood it all.
She rose from the bench and walked. The morning light caught the pebbles, scattered like diamonds. His presence surrounded her—in the letter’s words, in the memory of his touch, in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
“Min-jun, why didn’t you open your heart to me sooner?” she asked the wind, walking the riverside path. Her feet crunched on gravel as his voice, gentle as the current, touched her mind. She remembered his eyes. When they found hers, she knew what his heart was feeling.
“Did you understand my heart?” she asked, remembering his voice. When it reached her ears, she knew what he felt. Every time she saw his hand tremble, she felt his heart tremble too.
In her grandmother’s garden, surrounded by blooming flowers, Eun-seo’s heart felt light. The fragrance of spring blossoms lifted her spirit higher. She remembered their conversations, the way his voice had touched her ears, what his heart had felt in those moments.
“Grandmother, I want to tell Min-jun how I feel,” she said softly. Her grandmother smiled warmly. “Why not share your heart with him?” she replied gently.
Eun-seo nodded, understanding at last. His trembling hand. His eyes meeting hers. The letter in her hands. All of it—a conversation between two hearts finally learning to speak the same language.
“Min-jun, please accept my heart,” she whispered to the river, to the spring wind, to the blooming flowers around her.
And somewhere in that moment, she knew he heard her.