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Gohan had seen it almost everyday for years , but Pan's smile caught him by surprise. It was like hiccuping when he expected laughter. A grin tugged on the corners of his lips. He pushed his black glasses up his nose, careful to not let go of the brown paper bags in his hand.
"Daddy, look at those roses!," Pan said.
"So pretty, huh Pan-Chan. They're called carnations."
"Does Sensei Piccolo like flowers?"
"I'd suppose… if you gave them to him," Gohan smiled.
Pan's, roasted chestnut-brown eyes were warm, even welcoming in the blanketing haze of fog, like the torch lights burning by the front door of the shops' entrances.
They were two blocks away from their home and walled garden, but Gohan's heart stirred. The grey skies made his hand linger closer to his seven-year-old daughter. The drizzling sheets of rain turned his head over his shoulder all morning long. A cold, familiar chill nipped at the back of his neck, but the narrow cobble stone was always the same—empty. Pan would stop a few feet shy of her father. Their silent stares said the same thing: I heard it too.
Peaking bands of sunshine drew Gohan's eyes to the flower shop. Tightly wrapped bundles sat on the modest counter. A grey woman nodded at Pan behind the counter as Pan tidied the yellow blooms with her curious fingers.
"Daddy?," Pan said tugging her father's black trousers.
Gohan stuffed his hand into his pocket. He was careful not to catch the weathered leather band of his watch. Pan cupped her empty hand. The sharp sunlight sheened off the silver coins pinched between Gohan's fingers. Her eyes fluttered as he dropped them into her hand. She smacked the chilled coins on the rotten-wood counter. The grey shop keeper's wrinkled fingers scraped the change into her own palm.
"Take which ever one you want," the keeper mumbled behind her gentle, thin lips.
Pan froze, and stared at the woman's thin birdy shoulders. Her feathery voice perplexed pan. The girl's thoughts wandered to her mother, then to Grammy Chi-chi. For the first time Pan realized the withered years come to all— all those she loved.
Pan wrapped her arms around a bundle of carnations. The spicy scent wrinkled her nose.
"Let's go pan," Gohan said after pulling up his sleeve and peaking at his watch.
Pan's eyes rose to his voice. She gulped down a deep breath; he had vanished from the porch. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again, giving Pan 'the look'. It was the one that Videl supposed that he didn't have; she was wrong. Pan hugged the flowers to her chest when she saw his black pupils settling beneath the metal frames of his spectacles.
"Comin' daddy!"
The green paper wrapped around the flowers crunched in her grip. She tip-toed across the uneven cobblestone, mindful of its groves and cranies. Pan didn't mind, she never did. Another scrape on her knee was just one more reason to pilfer through her favorite stickers—bandaids! Dinosaurs were her favorite, but 'Hello Kitty' would do in a pinch.
"You're forgett—"
Pan hopped on her heels at the thought before Gohan finished his sentence. Her green sneakers clattered across the street, confident under her father's watchful eye. She tugged at the wrinkles on her grey leggings and pulled down the dirt stained ends of her t-shirt dress. She threw her head between her shoulder and bowed. Stray ends of loose black hair fell over her eyes. Her single braid clumsily flopped over her shoulder.
"Arigato!," she said as she whipped around and skipped back to her father. She noticed little over her huffing breath, but Gohan's pleased smile was obvious. Rogue petals danced in the misty air, leaving a floating yellow trail in Pan's wind.
"I think you lost more than you brought with you," he chuckled.
"I can't wait to give' em to Mr. Piccolo!"
"I'm afraid I'll have to take them alone today, Pan-chan."
"Is he mad at me?"
"What?"
Pan's brows raised at this sudden inflection in his voice. Guilt made her wring her busy hands.
"Not at all Pan-chan!," Gohan said.
She wasn't convinced. The seven year old was her father's greatest skeptic.
"Now why would he be?," Gohan tilted his head over his shoulder. His meek smile morphed into something more reserved, more akin to concern. Pan's lips puckered; she shrugged her shoulders. Pan wasn't so concerned with 'why'. Her mind lingered on a different phrase—'which one'. It could have been the Saturday she paraded around in his turban or demanding a different shade of green crayon to draw him with; it just wasn't dark enough. They were all after thoughts of the true sin; eating Po Po's toast.
"I dunno."
"Mr. Piccolo just wants to take precaution. He's not exactly like us—"
"Yeah he is," she blurted.
Gohan brought his hands together and leaned closer to her level, tailoring the sentence for the second-grader, " Piccolo sensei is from Namek."
"The big green, right?"
"Yeap, big green planet," he cracked a smile at her, "He's different. He didn't want you to catch it and get sick. He has to go see auntie Bulma about it later."
"Guess your right," Pan said.
Gohan approved with a nod, happy to bury the cumbersome conversation.
"He's different because he doesn't like the dinosaur bandaids," Pan finished.
"Pan's innocence made Gohan's eye lashes wet, but shame flushed his cheeks.
"You're absolutely right," he affirmed and patted her head, "Now lets go see grandma Son."
"Grammy Chi Chi and grandpa Goku!"
"Right again smarty pants."