At the edge of a village, beyond a white gate, was a garden that children thought simply looked great. Bright tulips and daisies, soft petals that swayed, in colours like sunlight and lemonade. Each child had a flower, the gardener would say, “One blossom for you as you wander and play. Care for it gently, let it grow tall — for a flower is happiest open to all.” So children would visit with laughter and cheer, their flowers unfolding more brightly each year. They watered and waited, they sang in the sun, watching their blossoms grow wide, one by one. But tucked in the hedge where the tall shadows stay lived a man who liked flowers in a different way. He didn’t plant seeds. He didn’t help grow. He simply liked finding the ones soft and slow. He’d kneel by a blossom and whisper, “Don’t shout. I’m only just looking — I’ll soon be about.” His fingers were quiet, his footsteps were light, like wind in the leaves on a still summer night. And sometimes a petal would tear just a bit. Not enough for the garden to notice it. The flower stayed standing. The colours stayed bright. From far off it looked perfectly normal in sight. But slowly the petals began doing things that puzzled the bees and the butterflies’ wings. Flowers once open at morning’s first glow started to tremble and close when winds blow. They folded too early. They hid from the sun. They curled up at shadows that meant no one. The bees asked the daisies, “Why hide from the day?” The daisies just whispered, “We’re safer this way.” They’d wonder — though never quite knowing just why — why sunlight could feel like a cloud passing by.