One lovely Thursday afternoon, a young man in a large tan coat came alone to a graveyard with a bright blue, dented watering can in his hands. He sauntered past the weathered tombstones with the air of someone shopping for groceries. Here was the produce aisle. And there, dairy.
The young man finally stopped at the end of a neat row, casting his shadow over a small granite headstone surrounded by living flowers. Standing over the grave, he tipped his hand forward and emptied his watering can over the bright blooms.
He turned, meaning to leave, but a welcome breeze shook the heads of the flowers and seemed to do something to the young man’s spirits. A small, crooked smile on his face, he crouched before the swaying flowers, watering can held loosely in his fingers.
“I’ll be back next Thursday. Mom.”
A small girl with long, brown hair peered curiously at the young man as his figure retreated into the distance, the flower crown on her head falling to the side and concealing one bright eye. Then, laughing gaily, the girl returned to her play.

The following Thursday brought with it a nip in the air, and the young man drew his jacket around him more tightly than usual as he pushed open the gate to the cemetery, blue watering can dangling from his fingers. It had been a stressful day at work, and the young man was in a foul mood. All with the air of a child completing a dreaded chore, he mowed his way across the manicured lawn to his mother’s grave and watered the flowers. He shoved a hand into his coat pocket, feeling irritated at the watering can for preventing his doing so with the other.
As the young man turned to depart, a movement caught his eye. As he had thought the graveyard to be empty, the young man was surprised and turned quickly to where he thought he saw the flash of color. His eyes finally came to rest on a little girl sitting in the grass a bit far from him, the front of her dress filled with daisies. She seemed to be making a daisy chain.
The young man frowned, wondering why this girl was alone in such a place. A cemetery, after all, was not exactly the most appropriate place for children to play. He glanced here and there in the graveyard but could not spot anyone who could be the little girl’s parents.
He thought about approaching the little girl, but in the end changed his mind, deciding that her parents must be close and that going up to the girl would come off as threatening. Grumbling about the cold, he hunched further into his coat and shuffled away, his free hand fumbling for his car keys.

The next Thursday, much to his own surprise, the young man found himself scanning the graveyard as soon as he arrived. He spotted the little girl perched beneath a willow tree, bedecked with flowers of all different colors. The young man set his jaw and, with a sort of awkward determination, marched towards the little girl.
“H-hey,” the young man stammered. “Where are your parents, little girl? Why are you by yourself?” A pair of bright blue eyes met his own, and the young man faltered slightly, his hands fidgeting even as he grasped the handle of his watering can.
A blustering wind came like a thief among them, giving slow sway to the branches above them and sending the petals of the girl’s flowers scattering. After giving the young man a last, curious glance, the girl gleefully gave chase as the young man watched from underneath the willow, one hand shoved into his pocket.
At this time, the young man consulted his watch and realized that he was nearly late to an important appointment. He looked one last time at the oddly picturesque scene of the little girl chasing a light pink petal  across the cemetery. Then he turned and hastened away.
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It was a gloomy day. Every weatherman was busy straightening his tie and gravely pointing at pictures of clip-art storm clouds. The wind administered a wet slap to the face of the young man as he trudged once more to the graveyard. The clouds hung ominously in the sky–and of course, there was no need to water the flowers that day–but the young man came with a grudging sense of duty to pay respects to his mother’s grave.
Distracted as he was by the wet and the gray and his own, grumbling mind, the young man failed to notice that the little girl was poised before the headstone that marked his destination. He was not even aware of her presence until only a few paces separated them, and they both stood before his mother’s grave. The little girl had taken no notice of the young man—her eyes were fixed on the grave-blossoms—and, for a moment, the young man forgot the dreadful cold to wonder what he could say to her. But suddenly, the girl bent down and pinched a flower between her fingers, and the enchantment was broken. It took him a moment to register, but as the stem of the lavender broke, the young man flew into a rage.
“What are you doing?” he shouted, his whole frame trembling with emotion. The little girl dropped her prize with a start; the purple flower fell like a star into the lifeless grass. “That,” the young man continued, pointing at the clump of flowers with a shaking hand, “is my mother’s grave. How dare you pick flowers from my mother’s grave?!”
“I-I-I only picked one,” the little girl stammered helplessly, wringing her hands.
“It doesn’t matter whether you picked one or a thousand,” the young man snapped. “Why can’t you see that?!” Angry and, in truth, a bit flustered, the young man took a step towards the little girl, and, with a cry of fear, she ran off. Watching the streak of dark hair and yellow dress growing smaller and smaller, the young man felt all the strength drain from him, leaving him feeling empty and ashamed.
He did not feel like returning to work, nor did he wish to stay at the graveyard any longer, especially with the impending storm. After a little deliberation, he determined to retreat to a coffee shop.

This coffee shop was small and tucked into a small nook directly across from the cemetery. Despite its having a rather depressing view, it was a reasonably popular little shop, and many people sat around the place drinking warm beverages and commenting on the amount of rain pouring outside. The young man sat by the window, an Americano cooling on the table before him, trying to convince himself that what he did was both justified and necessary.
The young man gazed out into the midday masked as night, and, as he did, a particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the terrain with a ghastly light. The young man started. Then, his hands gripping the edge of the table, he stared intently through the glass until another burst of light confirmed the truth of what he thought he had seen.
The little girl was still at the graveyard.
The young man grabbed his coat, nearly knocking over his chair in the process, and disgruntled many of the coffee shop’s patrons by hurtling out the front door and into the streets at full speed. When he reached the cemetery, he was already fully drenched and chilled to the bone.
He thought of shouting the little girl’s name before realizing that he had no idea what her name was.
Finally, the young man reached the little girl and found her hunched before the grave of his mother. “L-little girl!” he shouted over the storm. “You’ve got to get out of th-this rain!”
“T-the flowers!” the girl shrieked back through chattering teeth. “The storm is going to ruin the flowers!” It was only then that the young man realized that the little girl was sheltering the flowers from the storm with her body. Without another word, he scooped the little girl up into his arms and ran (though it felt to him more like swimming) back across the street to the coffee shop.

“My mother,” said the young man to the little girl when they were both dry and sufficiently calm, “was a gardener.” The little girl peeped out at him from a large bundle of towels. “When she died,” he continued after a moment, “she asked my sister and me to grow flowers on her grave. My sister… well, her job got transferred to another city, so it’s mostly been me taking care of them.”
“Every Thursday,” added the little girl, her voice a little muffled from behind the towels.
“Yes, every Thursday,” agreed the young man with a hesitant smile. After a small silence, he said softly, “I’m very sorry about yelling at you. I guess I was just… upset. I’m not even sure why, anymore.”
“It’s okay,” the little girl said cheerfully, before giving a small sneeze. “It’s only that the flowers were so pretty, you know. I was gonna make a cape, all with purple flowers.” The girl rambled on merrily, and the man marvelled at this creature that dared to bring such life into a place of death and whispered sorrows. He thought that perhaps this was the purpose of his mother’s grave-garden.
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The following Thursday was sunny. The young man and the little girl came together to the cemetery, the little girl singing and swinging the old blue watering can in her hands. Together they watered the flowers over the gardener’s grave.
The young man picked a bright, violet crocus from the little garden and stuck it behind the little girl’s ear. She laughed and crowned him with peonies. Together they knelt before the grave.
“We’ll be back next Thursday,” promised the little girl.
And hand in hand, they walked away.