Act I.

The oldest memory Jihoon can recall of himself and his family was filled with the various scents of flowers and food as his parents busied themselves in the house they've called home. Nicknamed Phlox (Yes, the flower.) by his mother, he was always told that with him followed harmony and to an extent, it did.

He remembers his friends and the adventures they would get into, he remembers the smell of bread in the morning from the baker's next door and how the baker's wife would have a bun filled berry-flavoured jam for him as his feet brought him to school.

He vividly remembers the flowers in his family garden; the many carnations and poppies that bloomed in Spring, the coreopsis and sunflowers that grew in Summer, yellows rivalling the colour of the sun and lastly, the dahlias and snowdrops that would follow in Autumn and Winter respectively. His favourite were still the phlox flowers, purples contrasting the yellow flowers in Summer.

Yellow was happiness to him, but purple made Jihoon feel something more that happiness.

Act II.

The worst memory Jihoon can think of would be his wilted phlox flowers. He's good with flowers, he swears on his life and his stuffed teddy bear that sits on his bed. But everyone had to start somewhere and Jihoon, who grew up only knowing how to give and give and give, learnt maybe always giving would lead to bad things. He would never forget how sad his flowers looked, his mother standing behind him.

Her dulcet voice would ring in his ears at times, a gentle reminder to not overdo things, be it watering his flowers or towards life. Jihoon only understood half of it, the first half that is, for he was still to prone to accepting more than he could handle.

The second time he learns about giving too much and not taking enough, he's lying on a bed in the school's infirmary. He had passed out from exhaustion, between juggling homework, flowers and extra work. He had to be carried by his friend to the nurse. As twelve-year-old Jihoon made his way home that day, he whispers to himself, to learn to stop giving so much. His feet pick up speed when his eyes spot his home and he hopes that he follows what he says. (He knows he probably won't.)

The last thing he remembers that day was his wilted flowers. Hands gripping new seeds to plant, Jihoon was ready to start anew with his plants but there was a loud commotion. The feeling in Jihoon's gut told him it was nothing good, to hide and wait. And hide he did, squeezing himself in a cupboard until he heard footsteps, frantic and a familiar voice calling for him. He doesn't remember much, just his mother pulling him out of the house, and everything gets jumbled from there.

Phlox may have been his nickname, filled with memories that remind him of yellows and purples, of delight and jubilation, but phlox was also the sole thread tying him and his past, a past filled with nightmares and fears.

Act II.V.

Jihoon stores his memories by emotions but sometimes emotions can be too much and he simply do not know where to fit some memories. The biggest one is his father's death. His father, putting his family first, had risked his life to protect his mother and never returned to them. Jihoon only found out when he was fifteen, seeing his mother cry one night when he woke up to get water. His mother had only held him tightly and told him she loved him.

The second memory would be when he first stepped into Vacillate. After escaping the start of the war in his old kingdom, his mother had brought the two of them to the kingdom Vacillate. A fresh start, his mother said, and Jihoon who had just turned thirteen, believed her. It was a new start, to say the least; they had both gone by different names. Phaedron, Jihoon was now known as Phaedron to most and the only who called him Jihoon was his mother. New start, he supposes, not that he truly minds the name.

Act III.

The saddest memory Phaedron bothers to keep is his mother's death. With the money his mother had withdrew before leaving the old kingdom, they had just enough to buy a small shop to set up a new flower shop and also handle expenses for a few months. Getting used to the environment was easy, Phaedron was never one to be difficult when it came to adapting and soon was able to find himself comfortable in the kingdom. His life fell into a comfortable routine soon after.

Mornings were reserved for tending the plants with his mother before rushing off to classes, almost similar to how life was before, minus the bun from the baker's wife. Instead, he receives a packed sandwich from his neighbour, an old man who took a liking towards Phaedron after finding the boy drawing in the flower shop. Afternoons and evenings were spent either at the flower shop or with friends. However, as the flower shop started to grow in business, he was no longer needed as much at the flower shop, his mother hiring more helpers to work.

Phaedron doesn't remember much of what happened. People say he's forgetful, he says it both forgetfulness fuelled with not wanting to remember how his mother's existence deteriorated. It was the week before graduation. His memory is foggy, images all blurred, he only remembers seeing his mother's pale body and wondering what happened. Life is so fleeting, he remembers thinking. Doctors say it was suicide and he wants to think otherwise, but he knows he won't.

The funeral is a quiet closed event, Phaedron didn't want too many people to see his mother's state. He wants her to be remembered by others the way he'll remember her, like the dahlias that would bloom in autumn and the coreopsis he had put into a bouquet once.

Picking up where his mother left off was difficult, especially when he was almost eighteen and barely graduated. Seeking help from the adults was one thing, actually being an adult was another. But it has been a year and with his mother words in mind, Phaedron is pretty sure he can continue doing well in his life, even if he does plant a few marigolds to let himself feel better.