Chapter 1: Goodbye Sunflower

Cape Town shimmered under the summer sun — the kind that turned everything into liquid gold.

Amara walked with her head lowered, the brim of her hat shading half of her face.

A soft breeze lifted the ends of her hair as she tightened her grip on the tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

Her sneakers scuffed against the pavement, blending in with the lazy rhythm of an ordinary day — something she hadn’t felt in months.

Her disguise was simple: an oversized linen shirt, denim jacket, shorts, and dark sunglasses.

No makeup, no jewellery, and definitely no spotlight for today.

It was her first real break in weeks.

The recording studio had become a second skin. The air turned heavy from soundproofing foam and exhaustion.

Her producer’s voice still echoed in her head — “One more take, Amara. You’re almost there.”

She’d lost count of how many “one mores” it took to make a song sound effortless.

She turned down a quiet street lined with small shops and pastel walls.

Somewhere in the distance, a busker played guitar.

The melody floated between the traffic and sea wind.

She slowed her steps, letting herself listen.

Then she heard her own voice.

Across the street, three girls huddled around a phone, laughter spilling into the air like sunlight.

One held up the screen, and there it was — “Goodbye, Sunflower” — the music video playing in full brightness.

Amara froze.

On-screen, she was radiant — gold silk dress, tear-streaked cheeks, singing under a rain of petals.

Critics had called it “a masterpiece of vulnerability.” The video had millions of views.

“She’s insane for keeping that note at the end,” one girl said, her voice full of awe.

“Like, no one else could pull that off. This song’s the best one on the album.”

“The album itself is flawless,” another added.

“Four Grammys for a debut album? She deserves all of it.”

Amara’s mouth curved into something that could’ve been a smile — but it wasn’t.

If only they knew.

The nights she’d spent sobbing in the bathroom, mistaking the pain in her chest for inspiration.

Goodbye, Sunflower

The song came from a place she rarely visited now — a garden of grief she’d long stopped tending to.

Her gaze drifted past them, toward a sign a few shops down.

The letters were hand-painted, uneven but warm:

Kevin’s Garden of Eden.

Something about it made her pause.

Maybe it was the way the sign’s green paint was fading at the corners, or the way sunlight reflected off the glass windows, blurring what was inside.

A bell jingled as she pushed open the door.

The scent hit her first — wild and overwhelming.

Jasmine.

Roses.

A hint of something citrusy: marigold & freesia.

It was the kind of air that didn’t just fill the lungs; it healed them.

The shop was alive with colour — pink, purple, & yellow shining brightly like the sun.

A gentle hum of beeswax and soil lingered underneath it all.

Amara stood there, momentarily forgetting why she’d come in at all.

Then she saw him.

Kevin stood behind the counter, trimming a bundle of daisies.

His movements were unhurried, almost meditative.

Every snip of the scissors was deliberate, followed by the soft rustle of petals falling onto the wooden table.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

Amara found herself watching him — the way his fingers brushed against the stems, the way he tilted his head slightly before deciding which leaf to cut.

There was rhythm to his stillness, an unintentional choreography.

It reminded her of the moments before a song began — the breath before the first note.

She didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t help it.

He moved as though he was part of the garden —  an extension of it.

He doesn’t perform, she thought.

He just exists.

That realization made something inside her ache — long buried under applause.

Kevin finally looked up.

“Hey.” he said, voice quiet but kind.

Amara lifted a hand in a small wave before wandering toward the nearest row of flowers.

No mistaking it — that was her.

Amara.

He tried to act natural, like it was a normal thing to have a four-time Grammy winner stroll into his humble shop in Gardens on a Tuesday morning.

He cleared his throat and returned to the daisies.

Focus, Kevin. Calm down. She’s just a Grammy winner. No big deal. Right?

The scissors clicked rhythmically.

Snip.

Snip.

And then—he froze.

A soft hum threaded through the air, barely above the rustle of the leaves and stems.

The kind of sound that didn’t just reach your ears — the kind that filled the room, the way sunlight did when it pierced through clear glass.

He turned before he could stop himself.

Amara stood near the hydrangeas, fingertips brushing against a petal as she hummed an unfinished melody.

Her eyes were far away — in the music, or maybe somewhere else entirely.

When she caught him looking, she stopped instantly.

“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed.

“Please don’t apologize,” Kevin replied quickly, setting down the scissors.

“That’s … your thing, right?”

She blinked, then smiled faintly.

“Just like this is your thing, right?”

Kevin paused mid-motion, her words sinking deeper than they should’ve.

He chuckled softly. “So it would seem.”

Amara walked over to the roses.

Rows of red, white, and pink — perfect, pristine, and somehow empty. She stared at them for a long moment, her expression was unreadable.

“I’ve been given so many roses,” she said finally, “that they’ve lost all meaning.”

There was a quiet ache in her voice, one Kevin recognized — the kind that comes from too much pretending.

“I think it’s sad that you feel that way,” he said.

She turned slightly, curious. “What do you mean?”

“People think roses are the symbol of love,” he said, picking up a daisy from the counter.

“But love doesn’t always look like that — it’s not always grand, or dramatic, expensive. Sometimes it can bright, simple, and unassuming. Like this.”

He handed her the daisy.

She took it gently, the white petals brushing her fingertips.

“So… a rose is just one expression of love?”

He smirked. “Now you’re getting it.”

She rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh.

“Shut up.”

Kevin laughed.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

The distant sound of traffic blurred through an open window.

Kevin trimmed another stem, then asked,

“How’s the recording going?”

Amara groaned softly.

“A nightmare. I haven’t slept properly in days.”

“I can tell,” he said, pointing to the faint shadows under her eyes.

She laughed, shaking her head.

“That’s the price of fame, I guess.”

He looked at her before asking.

“Is it something you wanted? The fame part, I mean.”

Her gaze drifted toward the window.

Outside, the horizon glowed gold, the clouds soft and pink like spun sugar.

“It wasn’t fame I wanted,” she said quietly.

“I just… love music. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me.”q

Kevin watched her as she spoke, noticed the way her voice softened, and how her posture eased.

In that moment, he saw what her songs must’ve looked like before they became headlines — pure, unguarded emotion.

“I get that,” he said.

“That’s how I feel about this shop.”

Amara turned back toward him.

Their eyes met for a moment too long, until she turned away.

“Speaking of flowers,” she said, breaking the silence.a

She walked around the counter, eyeing the trays of seedlings. “I still can’t believe you do this for a living.”

“What?”

“Run a flower shop.” Her lips curved teasingly. “It’s… kind of feminine.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “It takes delicate hands, not feminine ones necessarily .”

Amara grinned. “Delicate hands? That’s big talk from someone who trims daisies for a living.”

He chuckled, picking up the seed packet and tapping it lightly against his palm.

“And that’s big talk from someone who sings about sunflowers.”

She gasped in mock offense. “Touché.”

“Just saying,” he said with a grin. “Singing’s one thing. Growing a flower is another.”

“Are you implying I can’t grow one?”

“Pretty much.”

Amara crossed her arms, eyes glinting. “Okay, you’re on.”

Kevin smirked then walked to the counter and reached for a small wooden box.

“Alright, superstar. Let’s see if you can prove me wrong.”

Inside were rows of seed packets, each labelled in neat handwriting.

He sifted through them before holding one up.

“These are Chia seeds,” he said.

“It’s a simple plant. It doesn’t need much attention, but it will grow fast if you take real good care of it.”

Amara tilted her head. “So you’re trusting me with something that’s alive?”

He smirked. “It’s not alive yet. The point is — you make it come alive.”

She laughed softly. “You talk about flowers like they’re people.”

“They sort of are,” he said, shrugging.

“They just don’t talk back as much.”

Their fingers brushed as she took it. The faint crinkle of paper between them carried an odd, quiet weight.

“Chia seeds,” he said. “Plant them somewhere sunny. They’re resilient — they’ll grow if you give them enough care.”

She studied the packet for a second, then smiled. “It almost sounds like you’re describing people.”

“Maybe I am.”

For a moment, they just stood there — surrounded by colour and light, the faint scent of earth curling through the air.

Then Amara tucked the packet into her bag, pretending to sound casual.

“You’ll see. I’ll grow the best chia plant you’ve ever seen.”

Kevin grinned.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Oh, you will,” she said, walking toward the door.

The bell jingled as she stepped out into the warm afternoon, the sea breeze catching her hair.

When Kevin looked up again, she was gone.

But on the counter lay a single daisy — the one he gave her earlier.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head.

“Just a Grammy winner,” he muttered.

“No big deal.”

 

Later that night…

The drive back to her apartment was quiet.

The roads shimmered under the late afternoon sun, the ocean glinting between buildings like a sheet of glass.

Amara rolled down her window as she crossed the bridge near the CBD.

The city’s summer air carried that faint salt-and-soil scent — the kind that always reminded her of home before home became hotels and stages.

By the time she reached her apartment in Green Point, the sky had already deepened to amber.

She dropped her keys onto the counter, slipped off her hat and sunglasses, and let her hair fall loose.

Her reflection in the glass balcony door caught her attention — tired eyes, makeup-less face, and a faint sunburn across her nose.

This was her, not the Amara on the magazine covers.

She placed the small packet of seeds on the table.

The words Chia Seeds were handwritten in neat, even letters.

Beneath it, Kevin had scribbled a small note she hadn’t noticed before:

“Every garden starts from within.”

Amara stared at it for a moment, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

She found a spare ceramic pot on the balcony — one that used to hold a dying fern.

The soil was dry and cracked, untouched for months. She sat cross-legged beside it, tearing the packet open carefully.

Tiny black seeds spilled into her palm — almost weightless.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, half-smiling at herself.

“I’m talking to seeds now.”

She dug her fingers into the soil, breaking apart the hardened pieces until the earth felt loose again.

The smell of damp dust rose around her, grounding, familiar.

As she pressed the seeds into the dirt, her mind wandered — to Kevin’s words, to his quiet smile, to the way he said

Love doesn’t always look like a rose.

Those words lingered.

For years, that’s what love had meant to her — roses handed to her on stage, from fans, roses on Valentine’s Day from people who barely knew her.

The symbol had become empty & overused- too perfect to feel real.

She thought about her last relationship — the photos, the red bouquets, the headlines that followed. “Amara’s new romance in full bloom.”

But all those roses had wilted in the same way — beautiful in public, but lifeless in private.

She poured a little water into the pot. The soil darkened, drinking greedily.

Maybe love wasn’t meant to be perfect, she thought.

Maybe it was meant to grow — messy, slow, & uncertain.

She pressed her thumb into the soil one last time, then sat back.

The wind brushed against her skin, carrying the faint scent of the sea.

The sun was setting now, turning everything gold — the walls, the pot, even the tiny flecks of dirt on her fingers.

Amara rested her chin on her knees and watched the pot in silence.

Somewhere inside that handful of soil, something had begun.

She smiled softly to herself, barely above a whisper.

“Let’s see if you can grow.”