Morning finds me before the sun does. The sky is still bruised with night when I step into the greenhouse, the air damp and earthy. My fingers brush over petals like I’m greeting old friends--violets still shy in their bloom, sunflowers already wide awake. I don’t rush them. Flowers teach you that beauty isn’t in haste.

(‘‘I pick what speaks to me’’) a marigold for courage, a white daisy for clarity, a single blue hyacinth for the ache you can’t name. Each stem placed carefully in my basket, like a secret I’m trusted to carry.

The sun arcs overhead, and petals start to droop with the weight of the day. I hum to them as I rearrange--an old tune my mother used to sing when she thought I was asleep.

By evening, I’ve given most of them away. What’s left, I press between pages of a worn notebook I carry. Not all beauty must be seen to be remembered.

As dusk swallows the street, I walk home slowly, the scent of crushed petals still on my skin. Tomorrow, I’ll do it again. Not because the world changes--but because someone might, just a little, with a flower in their hand.