The Singapore Orchid House – Part 1: Slow to Bloom

"It won't open today," said Daniel.

"The label says it's due."

"The label is hopeful." He smiled and adjusted the misting valve. "Orchids do not read labels."

The greenhouse was a long glass house at the edge of a Singapore garden, warm and damp, with the rain drumming on the panes like a thousand small fingers. Shelves of orchids ran along both walls, pale pink, deep purple, speckled gold. Mei, thirty-three, a botanical illustrator, sat on a stool with her sketchbook open and a half-finished drawing of a bud that refused to move.

Daniel, thirty-six, the grower, wore an apron stained green at the pockets and spoke in a low, unhurried voice. He had spent nine years breeding a single rare slipper orchid, and he treated every plant as if it might be listening.

"You could come back next week," he said.

"I could." Mei looked at the bud. "Or I could wait."

So she waited. Every morning she arrived with her pencils and a flask of tea, and every afternoon she and Daniel had lunch on upturned crates between the benches. He taught her the Latin names. She taught him to see the way light fell on a petal. By the third week she had filled half her sketchbook with orchids and the other half, secretly, with his hands.

On a wet Thursday evening, with the rain roaring on the roof, the bud finally opened. They both froze. Slowly, as if exhaling, the flower unfurled, deep burgundy edged with gold.

"Oh," said Mei, softly.

"Yes." Daniel was looking at her. "That is what I wanted you to see."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Full Bloom.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Full Bloom.