A chrysanthemum? No. He squinted, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes turned into talons. What kind of flower is this? The book trembled silently in his grasp as the old man looked at the faded paper stuck between the pages.

A flower. The hidden note had nothing more than a shakily drawn flower on it, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what kind of flower it was. Chrysanthemum. There that word was again. If not that, then what else could it be?

His eyes slowly found the righthand corner of the page, where the number 617 looked back up at him expectantly. He had flipped to this page, but why? All he knew was that his throat itched. Wait, is that all he knew? The sudden realization of his own confusion caused an even sharper reaction in his esophagus, and he reached up to the pull on the turtleneck which felt even tighter around his neck.

The crinkle of paper stopped his hand halfway, and his eyes widened in shock. Another piece of paper, similar to the one with the picture of the Chrysanthemum hidden away on page 617, was held in his other hand. With a start, the old man flipped the newly discovered note over to find another picture of a flower drawn on the front of it.

“Chrysanthemum.” The word escaped his cracked lips before he even knew what he was saying, and just like that he recognized the flower. Now this, this one, is a chrysanthemum. An artist had clearly created the beautiful flower, colored deeply pink. But then what was the flower in the book? His eyes turned back to the pages.

Now that he looked at it again, the flower in the book looked sad. Nothing like the one in his hand. Colored a somber shade of blue, its petals drooped, and it leaned heavily as if pulled downward. He felt a pang of regret, and a memory tugged at the back of his consciousness. It stayed just out of his reach. He gently ran a weathered hand over the image, then without thinking turned to the next page.

618. Moving as if in a dream, he slid the picture of the Chrysanthemum in between the pages. As he let go of the image, he felt an immense release, and with a surge of inspiration started turning back the pages further than he had before. Another flower, this one burning red and angry. He felt his heart beat faster, and his shaking hands continued to turn pages as fast as they could. Pictures of flowers were tucked in between every page. Purple, yellow, green, bright, dull, small, large… every type of flower imaginable lived between these pages.

Before long he found himself on page 1. Reincarnation. The only thing living on page 1 was the single word. And with that word, he remembered.

“A flower,” he whispered. “One flower for each life. Some of them memorable, some of them forgettable. Yet all in the same place, in the end.”

He closed the book and slid it back into the bookshelf in front of him. After a moment, the old man’s face contorted into a confused grimace, and he looked around indecisively. More moments passed, and he began to hobble toward the end of the aisle. A sea of bookshelves, each one packed to the brim with books, flowed outward in every direction. He wandered aimlessly, leaving the book behind. Until next time.