A Simple Thank You
Nazrin stood outside the old workshop in Ipoh, holding the rustic bouquet wrapped in crinkled brown paper red roses, spray roses, apples, and a vintage-style newspaper sheet tucked behind the blooms. It was warm, earthy, and sentimental. Something about it felt like “home.” Which made it perfect for Uncle Razak.
Growing up, Nazrin didn’t have much. After his father passed away when he was twelve, the neighbourhood quietly stepped in to help, but no one stepped in as much as Uncle Razak, his father’s closest friend. The man who taught him how to fix a bicycle, how to hammer a nail straight, how to save money, how to survive when life got loud and heavy.
But most importantly, Uncle Razak taught him how to keep going.
He wasn’t the type to say motivational speeches. He wasn’t soft or gentle. He was straightforward, occasionally grumpy, smelled faintly of engine oil, and always snacked on apples like it was a personality trait. But he showed up every single time Nazrin needed him silently, consistently, without ever expecting thanks.
Last month, when Nazrin received a small promotion at work in Selangor, everyone congratulated him, but Nazrin thought about only one person: the man who shaped the foundation he built himself on. He visited White On White, known as one of the best florists in Malaysia, and told the florist, “I want something that feels like gratitude… but less fancy, more real.” She handed him this bouquet. Red tones for appreciation, apples for abundance, and rustic wrapping that felt honest, grounded, familiar. The bouquet was perfect for him.
Nazrin stepped into the workshop. Uncle Razak was hunched over a motorcycle, wiping grease off his hands. “Boy, what are you doing here on a weekday?” he grumbled without looking up. Nazrin laughed. “No uncle. I came to see you.”
When Uncle Razak finally turned, his eyebrows shot up at the sight of the bouquet. “Eh? For what?” he asked bluntly.
“This is for you.”
“For me?” Uncle Razak frowned. “Why flowers? You know I don’t do romantic things.”
“It’s not romantic,” Nazrin said gently. “It’s a thank you. For everything you did… when you didn’t have to.” Uncle Razak froze.
Nazrin continued, voice softer now. “You took care of me like I was your own. You taught me everything when I was lost. And because of you… I’m able to stand on my own two feet today.”
The older man looked away, clearing his throat a little too loudly. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “You grew up by yourself.”
“No,” Nazrin said firmly. “I grew because you pushed me.” He handed the bouquet over.
Uncle Razak touched the apples first of course. Then the flowers, then the wrapping.
“This is… very nice,” he said quietly. “Thank you, boy.”
It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it was real. A simple thank you finally said after years of unspoken gratitude.
