The Flawless Orchid

By Ran Shi

Arthur cleaned the gaps between his floor tiles until they turned glowing. Then he paced around them anxiously with a magnifying glass, just to make sure no tiny speck of dust dared to come back. Finally, he stepped back and allowed himself to smile. He admired his beautiful work with satisfaction. His house was absolutely perfect.

Every piece of furniture stood in an exact straight line, and even the glasses on the dining table were arranged in perfect order from the tallest to the shortest. His shoes were polished until they shone with his reflection. His clothes were always neatly folded like stacks of business papers.

The length of his sleeves and pant legs were always cut precisely, so they weren’t too messy or too long. He could tell if they were off by even a millimeter.

Recently, Arthur became obsessed with growing orchids as a new hobby.

He had saw the wild orchid his neighbor Lawrence left outside in his yard. It was exposed to wind and sun every day, with no special care at all. Yet it bloomed wildly and vibrantly, full of life. So Arthur decided he would grow one too. But it would be a flawless orchid, one that would surely outcompete Lawrence’s.

The orchid that he picked was a single purple orchid. He bought a fancy porcelain pot and placed it in the sunniest spot in his home. He watered it using a measuring cup every day. If he was one second late, he’d add one extra drop to “make up for it.” He set three alarms for fertilizing and two more alarms for ventilation.

To keep his orchid in ideal condition, Arthur never let the windows open, afraid the wind would damage the fragile leaves. Even when cleaning, he walked around the pot carefully, brushing dust away with a soft brush, not daring to disturb the plant at all.

On one mild Sunday morning, Arthur was polishing his new garden tools when Lawrence had wandered over, a plastic watering can in hand.

Lawrence saw Arthur’s orchid through Arthur’s curtained window and grinned. “That’s a fancy one you got there. But locking it up that tight’s just gonna suffocate it.”

Arthur looked up, wiping his hands on a starched napkin, his tone cold. “You call that gardening?”, pointing at Lawrence’s orchid yard. “That’s neglect. Perfection isn’t luck—it’s control. Exact drops of water, exact amount of light, exact everything.”

 Lawrence had laughed like he didn’t even care and shrugged. “Perfection’s not about making everything all the same, neat, and rules. Just let something be itself, and that nature would make perfection.”

Arthur, too annoyed to argue, stormed back into his house. He was convinced that Lawrence knew nothing. His rules were the only way.

As the flowering season approached, Arthur grew even more cautious. He got up once every night to check on it, covering the pot with a breathable cover to keep away bugs and protect it. He spent hours pacing in front of the window, and visions of elegant, purple blossoms danced in his dream: just like the pictures in the gardening books.

But on the day the flower finally opened, Arthur was shocked.

The petals were wilted and dark, and their edges were dry. It looked nothing like the elegant orchid he had in mind.

Panicking, he called a professional gardener over immediately, who took one look at the sealed plant and burst out laughing. “Sir, you tortured it to death. The poor orchid! It needed sun, wind, enough space to breath.”

Arthur stood frozen, staring at the orchid he had protected so carefully and fiercely.

“You see,” continued the gardener, “your perfect care is just slow murder. It’s just like us humans—we need space to truly live and feel life around us. You need to let go rather than control and embrace its nature. That’s what will make the orchid truly beautiful.”

Now Lawrence’s laughter from that Sunday morning rang in his mind—Just let something be itself—and he caught a glimpse of Lawrence’s bright, free orchid through the window, blooming wildly in the sunset.

Arthur blinked, jaw tightening, and faced the gardener. “No,” he snapped angrily, “You breathed too much and disturbed my orchid’s air. Just leave.” He waved the confused man off without a second glance.

Alone again, Arthur stared at the orchid for a long, rigid moment, trying hard to replay every action, every rule, and only concluding he’d not been strict enough.

Then, he dragged the dead orchid outside abruptly and threw it in the trash like a worthless piece of garbage.

He didn’t pause for a second. Grabbing his phone, he immediately ordered the exact same purple orchid and a new porcelain pot. He restocked his beakers then re-nailed the thick cloth over the window tighter than before, hammering each nail hard into the wood. Next, he reset every alarm on his clock and phone, timing each to the exact second, muttering furiously under his breath the whole time.

And so he went back to pacing in front of the window, waiting for his new orchid to bloom someday.