The sun pressed gold through the old apple tree, and the stone path wound between beds of wildflower, thick moss, and tangled green vines.
Marigold's foot caught on a root. She went tumbling—thud, thud—into a tangle of moss behind the apple tree. She lay there, blinking at the green overhead.
A cold drip plopped right on her nose. Marigold gasped and grabbed the nearest glowing stem. It pulsed soft blue-green under her small fingers.
A fat bumblebee buzzed down and plunked onto the moss beside her hand. Its fuzzy belly nudged her thumb, then it dipped away toward a crooked watering can wedged under the vines.
Marigold hauled the can free. Cold water sloshed over her knuckles, and she giggled, shaking it dry. The water dripped from her fingers like tiny stars.
The bumblebee circled the wilting flowers twice, slow and steady. Then it tapped each closed bud with its head, once, twice, three times. A dare, plain as you like.
She squirted the first bud. Nothing. The second popped open with a tiny thread of pink. The third stayed shut no matter how much she splashed.
Marigold stomped a scuffed shoe on the stone path. The bumblebee hummed low, then nudged the can's spout toward the stubborn bud—just a little, just slow.
The sun dropped low and turned the sky the color of peach. All three blossoms cracked open wide, wide, wide, and their glow spilled until the whole garden rang with light.
Her can tipped over. Water splashed in a silver arc while she pressed both palms flat on the warm stone. The bumblebee spiraled up into the glow, trailing a thin golden thread of sound.
Marigold walked back along the winding stone path. The garden shimmers with colors she'd never noticed—the moss, the vines, a butterfly perched on a thistle.
She stopped at the apple tree, tipped her chin toward the glowing patch, and said, 'See you tomorrow,' loud enough for the flowers to hear. The bumblebee did one last lazy loop over her head before diving into the dusk.