「我走了。」
「恩，路上小心。」
我站在浴室前昏暗的走廊上，濕滑的磨石子地板是南風吹起時的徵兆，整間屋子像是個重感冒的病患，不斷地吐出濕氣，水沿著新漆好的壁面滴了下來，被層層堆疊的油漆刷痕阻了又阻，終究還是無力地與地面的水漬匯合。她的聲音被南風推擠著穿越走廊，又濕又黏，但她其實是個利索的人--
「喀」
「喀」
兩聲，她穿好了皮鞋，一陣令人焦躁的腳步聲與突然亮起的走廊，隨著關門聲，又回到一團昏沉的濕氣之中，她出門了。
我拖著半乾的頭髮，來到浴室旁的廚房，狹長的房子僅只一點防火巷裡的陽光，經由抽油煙機的通風口勉強維持著電燈開關周圍一小角昏黃。電燈開關旁是浴室與廚房之間唯一的插座，吹風機就放在插座前的摺疊桌上，桌上堆著她剛剛用過的口紅，雪弗蘭與去相館前換下的衣服，底下疊著幾件衣褲。燈亮起的瞬間我以為自己來到了花園：這些印著無法辨識的花卉的衣服，層層疊滿了桌面，甚至垂墜到地上。
這是她經營布莊兼擔任裁縫師的樂趣，客人裁剩的布料與蕾絲被她小心地保存著，進貨的布料若有剩餘的零碼布，互相搭配著縫製新衣。當中她尤愛花卉的款式，不論這些花是可辨識的雛菊牡丹，或是歪歪扭扭，湊合著幾種特徵的奇怪花卉，這些長在綿布與絲緞上的花卉成為她的襯衫、外套與洋裝。
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她喜歡花，這一半是布莊，一半是住家的房子裡幾乎是被花朵覆蓋，三辦四辦五瓣重瓣的花長成她的服裝也長成她的生活。房間裡，床上鋪著牡丹圖樣的床單，被單是日式車輪狀的菊花，窗簾由兩塊布接成，一塊嫩綠絲綢暗繡蘭花，一塊粉棉布壓印荷花，衣櫃，床頭，窗扇上，雕著拼著貼著花，通往布莊的玻璃門上貼了玫瑰圖樣的包裝紙，電視機上插著一盆從喜宴裡蒐集而來的各色塑膠花。
可這房子裡究竟沒真正長著花過，布莊的工作太多，況且她又是個急躁的人，幾次失敗的種花經驗，讓她索性把填好土的花盆堆到佛堂牆角，粗糙地剪去已然枯萎的莖，疊成一落，淋過雨，生的都是泥綠的青苔雜草，散著濕腐的味道。
吹乾了頭髮，我向電視機所在的布莊走去，卻聞到一絲怪異的味道，不安，躁動，有點水的味道，但不像牆壁滲出的水那般帶著潮味，有一點陽光味，但比廚房電燈開關那一角的昏黃更強烈，不是裁縫車徹夜工作時散發的焦味，不是布料新進時微酸的漿味，不是客人身上繁複的香水味，不是屬於這房子的味道，但卻十分……適合，我加快步伐，往味道來源的布莊走去。
剛打開通往布莊的門，一股強烈的味道直撲而來，有一點熟悉，我肯定在哪裡聞過類似的味道--她走時忘記關電風扇了，這味道便隨著電風扇佔據了屋子的每個角落，一支纖弱的花從電視機上頭的塑膠花堆裡探出頭來，七片不同顏色的花瓣被風吹得一晃一晃的。
我掐住一片花瓣，花瓣很快就掉了，掐住花瓣的那片指甲被染成與花瓣相同的顏色，我又掐住另一片花瓣，指尖還沒用力，花瓣又掉了，甚至聽到極細微的一聲「波」，是花瓣離開花托的聲音。味道似乎是從這裡散發的，味道越來越濃厚，我疑惑地望向布莊大門，敞開的大門可以直接看到整條民權路。
原來鋪著柏油，沒有任何植物的地面如今長滿了纖弱的七辦小花，整條路的商家都停止了營業，不少熟識的老闆與客人們驚訝著吸著過度鮮美的空氣。
香，對了，原來是花香。
我離開布莊，加入了欣喜的人群，沿著民權路跑了起來
沿路訝異的人們試探著踩進花叢裡，行駛中的車輛也停了下來，花沿著車輪邊緣的空隙急遽地生長，一些人跳起舞來，被踩碎的花瓣將鞋跟與褲腳染得五彩繽紛，但，她呢？
「她呢？」
推開相館的門我看著捧著相機發愣的攝影師
「她呢？」
攝影師看起來尚未從震驚裡恢復，又重複了一次
我看著攝影機正前方的椅子
上面是熟悉的襯衫，七分裙，皮鞋，鬆軟地鋪著，像座花園
她消失了
「按下快門的時候，消失了」
「什麼？」
「她消失了，按下快門的時候，突然消失了」
攝影師急促地說著，臉脹得通紅，一滴汗自他的鼻間滴了下來
「相片呢？」
攝影師還想再說些什麼，但我看見綠色，纖弱的莖不斷地自底片放置的地方竄出，相機背蓋不見了，植物以肉眼可見的速度結成花苞，開花，七種顏色的花瓣在攝影師粗肥的手指旁搖晃。
“I’m heading out.”
“Okay, be safe.”
I stood in the dim corridor in front of the bathroom. The damp terrazzo floor is a sign that the South wind has come. The entire house feels like a patient with a severe cold, constantly exuding a humid breath. Some water trickled downwards along the freshly painted walls, interfered by the ridges and valleys of brush strokes, but eventually converging weakly with the puddle on the ground. Her sounds, damp and viscous, was pushed through the corridor by the South wind; but she’s actually an agile person—
“Clop.”
“Clop.”
Two sounds, she’s put on her leather shoes. The corridor, momentarily stirred by the anxious sounds of footsteps and the light from a lamp, reverted to a humid, sluggish atmosphere with the sound of the door shutting. She has left.
I held my half-dry hair and stepped into the kitchen beside the bathroom. A faint sliver of sunlight, from the dimly-lit fire escape alley outside, meandered through the opening of the stove vent pipe and rested on the wall around the light switches; the lone patch of sunlight in the narrow interior of this house. Next to the light switch is the only electrical outlet of the bathroom and the kitchen. The blow-dryer is sitting on the fold-up table in front of the outlet. On the table lies the lipstick that she just used, a jar of Cellina cream, and the clothes she changed off when she left for the photography studio, under which there are several pairs of clothes and pants. The moment I switched on the light, I felt as if I was transported to a garden. These clothes, with various unknown flowers printed on them, pile layers and layers on the tabletop, some even hanging down to the floor.
This is her hobby as both a manager of a fabric shop and a tailor. She saves the scrap fabric and lace left from tailoring clothes for customers and combines them with odd-sized fabric leftover from the bulk order to create new clothes. She especially adores the floral fabrics, regardless of whether the flowers are recognizable ones such as daisy and peony, or strange, distorted flowers composed of a mix of characteristics. These flowers, growing on cotton and silk fabric, grow into her shirts, jackets, and dresses.
She likes flowers. Half of this house is a fabric shop, and half is her home, where it’s almost covered entirely with flowers. Flowers with three-petals, four-petals, or five petals grow in her clothing and her life. In the bedroom, peonies adorn the bed sheet; Japanese emblem-style chrysanthemums embellish the bed cover; the curtains are made of two different fabrics, one is a baby green silk embroidered with orchid, the other a pastel cotton fabric embossed with lilies. The dresser, headboard, window, are all engraved or pasted with flowers. The glass door that leads to the fabric shop is decorated with rose-patterned wrapping paper. A pot of colorful plastic flowers collected from a wedding banquet sits on top of the television.
However, this house never grew any real flowers. The fabric shop’s workload is too heavy, and plus she’s an impatient person. A few failures with planting flowers led her to simply push the dirt-filled flower pots into the corner of the wall next to the Buddhist praying altar. Crassly trimmed stems stack on top of each other, and the dirt, doused with rain, now teems with muddy-green moss and weeds and smells of dampness and decay.
I dried my hair and walked towards the television, which is placed in the fabric shop. However, I encountered a strange smell—it’s nervous, restless, has the smell of water, yet not like the musty smell of the water seeping out the walls. It has a hint of sunlight, yet more intense than the patch of sunlight near the light switch in the kitchen. It’s not the burning smell of a tailoring machine that worked all night non-stop. It’s not the slightly sour smell of new, starched cloth, nor the complicated smell of perfume from costumers. It’s not a smell that belonged to this house, but yet it’s very…suitable. I quickened my pace towards the fabric shop, the source of the smell.
As soon as I opened the door to the fabric shop, a strong smell wafted towards me. It’s slightly familiar…I must have smelled something similar somewhere. She forgot to turn off the fan when she left, the smell thus spread through the entire room. A single, frail-looking flower poked its head out from the bunch of plastic flowers on top of the television. Its seven differently-colored petals swayed in the wind.
I pinched a petal between my fingers, the petal easily came off. The nail on my finger is stained with the same color as the petal. I pinched another petal, but before I could get a good hold, the petal came off again. I even heard a tiny “bop” sound, the sound of the petal leaving the receptacle. The smell must have come from here, yet the smell keeps growing stronger. I gazed, baffled, towards the entrance door of the fabric shop with the whole of Minquan Road in view.
The ground, once covered with asphalt and devoid of any plants, now blooms the seven-petal flowers. The stores of the entire street have closed and many familiar store owners and customers are taking in the overly delicious air with astonishment.
It’s fragrant…Oh right, this is the fragrance of flowers.
I left the fabric shop, joined the overjoyed crowd, and ran along Minquan Road.
Along the street, astounded people cautiously stepped into the flowers. Cars stopped as well. Flowers are growing rapidly in the gaps beside the car wheels. Some people started dancing, the crushed petals dyed the shoe soles and trouser legs with a rainbow of colors. But where is she?
“Where is she?”
I pushed open the door to the photography studio and inquired the photographer, dazed and clutching his camera.
“Where is she?”
The photographer seems like he hasn’t recovered from shock, so I asked again.
I stared at the chair in front of the camera.
On the chair, the familiar shirt, skirt, leather shoes lay softly like a garden.
She has disappeared.
“When I clicked the shutter, she disappeared.”
“What?”
“She disappeared. When I clicked the shutter, she suddenly disappeared.”
The photographer said hastily, faced puffed red, a single bead of sweat rolling down the tip of his nose.
“Where are the photos?”
The photographer wanted to say something else, but then I saw a green, delicate stem bursting out from where the film roll is. The camera’s back cover is gone, and the plants are growing with a noticeable speed into buds, and then flowers. The seven-colored petals quivered next to the photographer’s chubby fingers.
