Second Wind

The dull blades of the pruning shears couldn’t cut through the withered branch. Reinhardt clicked his tongue in annoyance and immediately burst into a fit of coughing — his saliva had gone down the wrong way. He dropped the shears and doubled over, hacking violently. Out of habit, he reached for the inhaler he always kept in his pocket, but instantly realized — no, this wasn’t an attack.

Once the coughing subsided, he straightened up and stretched. The sun blazed mercilessly. He bent down, picked up the shears, and resumed methodically trimming the excess branches. The apple tree had withered completely — what a shame, it had once been so fruitful! With a heavy heart, he glanced around the once-flourishing garden — the vibrant splendor of the past had long faded into a mere shadow of its former palette. Sometimes, he simply felt like giving up — no matter how carefully he watered, no matter what fertilizers or supplements he used — it was all in vain. The violets, irises, and strelitzias had withered beyond recovery. Only the lilac bush still brought him joy —though it didn’t look too healthy either, but…

Reinhardt froze and peered closer. Could it really be…?

Ten minutes later, he slammed the garden gate shut and headed toward the only person who could answer his question.

***

Reinhardt walked along the roadside. Cars roared past, sending waves of fresh air his way. He inhaled gratefully— it was the only thing that made breathing even slightly easier. He crossed the highway under the shrill beeping of the crosswalk signal, stopped, shielded his eyes from the scorching sun, and squinted into the distance. Near the horizon stood a roadside store — on the very edge of Hochberg — and beyond it, the dead trunks of trees that had once been a lush, green grove.

Covering his eyes with his hand, Reinhardt pressed on.

***

Inside, the air was cool and fresh — thanks to the humidifiers. Reinhardt even shivered slightly as he stepped over the threshold. He greeted the shopkeeper, as always, and glanced around once more.

Behind the counter stood the old florist — he and Reinhardt had known each other for years. Reinhardt stepped closer and raised his hand in greeting. The florist broke into a smile.

The florist’s name was Tai Ming. The old-timers said he’d been running this little shop since his youth, but that was so long ago no one could say for sure. One thing remained unchanged — the air inside was always humid, cool, and subtly scented with roses.

Reinhardt looked around again — as usual, neat white planters lined the walls, filled with beautiful bouquets: roses, carnations, peonies, tulips—too many to name.

Reinhardt approached the counter, pulled a freshly cut lilac branch from his bag, and in a conspiratorial, almost theatrical whisper, said to Tai Ming:

"Here’s the thing…"

***

The heat and stifling air smothered him like a pesky fly. One moment, he was watering his poor hydrangeas and asters, and the next, he was lying on the ground. Heatstroke? No. Something else. Reinhardt came to, flat on his back, the sun scorching his eyes like molten metal.

He enthusiastically recounted the incident to Tai Ming in vivid detail, but the old man only listened and nodded. Reinhardt even felt a little hurt — had the old man (Reinhardt himself was no spring chicken, but he still thought of Tai Ming as "the old man") not been moved by his story at all?

Without a word, Tai Ming took the lilac branch and disappeared into the back room.

Reinhardt turned away and studied the bouquets, imitating interest.

"We’ll see," Tai Ming finally returned, resuming his place behind the counter with his usual smile.

That smile was impossible to decipher — on one hand, Reinhardt was used to it, but on the other, it always unsettled him. Still, he had grown accustomed enough to brush it off and ask directly:

"See what?"

"If it takes root," Tai Ming replied calmly.

"It can even take root?" Reinhardt thought, stunned. Out loud, he cleared his throat and said:

"Well, I’ll stop by later, then…"

"Do," Tai Ming answered, his smile unchanging.

Reinhardt never got to say the most important part — and believing what he had just experienced was far harder than accepting the fact that Tai Ming’s shop still had live flowers. Reinhardt was seriously starting to suspect some kind of hidden greenhouse, untouched by stuffy air — but those were just wild conspiracy theories.

He shook his head. No, that couldn’t be.

He walked back along the highway, the river sprawling wide to his right. Shallow now, but still inviting with its coolness, it flowed past him like a murmuring monument. Once, thick bushes had grown in abundance along both banks — so dense the water was barely visible — but now, only brittle deadwood remained.

***

Back home, Reinhardt began carefully inspecting the garden. He tried to recall every detail of what he had told Tai Ming — something felt missing from his story. Had he pruned the branches? Yes. Watered the flowers? Yes. Added fertilizer? Yes. And yet, something still didn’t add up. He glanced at the shears lying in the garden basket. Right. Something was coming together. He had trimmed the lilac branches. And then, and then…

And then he had coughed again, just like before. As if something invisible had punched him in the gut, his lungs collapsing like a child’s toy whistle.

He frantically dug into his pocket, pulled out his inhaler, and took a puff.

A cool, bitter, metallic stream hit his throat, and a second later, something clicked in his chest. The air flowed easier, and he took his first truly deep breath in the last minute. His hands trembled, but no longer from fear.

He straightened up, tilted his head back, and looked at the blazing sun. That was the difference.

***

Tai Ming stared thoughtfully at the lilac branch in a jar of water, stroking his gray beard. The color was unusual —yes, Reinhardt had mentioned a "new variety," but it wasn’t just the hue. No, more observation was needed. Everything in its own time. He placed the jar under a lamp, left the back room, and shut the door behind him.

***

Reinhardt froze and peered closer. Could it really be…?

His chest tightened, his head spun, he lost his balance, darkness swallowed his vision, and he fell onto his back.

"Right, that’s exactly how it happened," he thought, touching the marks on the ground — the grass was flattened, the turf torn up in places, as if someone had struggled to crawl or been dragged.

A sudden wave of freshness washed over him — like a relic from the days when weather forecasts didn’t mention air saturation. He desperately wanted to believe, so he crawled forward, clawing at the parched earth until his strength left him.

Reinhardt leaned over the lilac bush again, and the intoxicating rush of freshness in the midst of the sweltering heat nearly knocked him off his feet. Right there, beneath the lilac, the yellowed grass was flattened— as if someone had lain there.

He took a deep breath of the fresh air, felt lighter, mentally scolded himself for forgetting his inhaler, and sank into darkness.

Reinhardt inhaled deeply once more. The weight in his chest lifted, and the stifling air around him seemed to dissipate. The air, which had felt thick enough to chop with an axe, was light and fresh again. He looked around in bewilderment.

A coincidence?