Rain hammers the playground on a grey Tuesday. The central garden sits bare and dusty. Every petal is curled shut, tight as a fist.
Bramble kneels in the dusty bed. She presses her palm flat against the cold dirt. The soil cracks under her fingers.
"I'll water you every day," she whispers. The garden goes still. Only the drip, drip, drip of rain on dry soil.
Morning after morning, she drags the red watering can. She tips the water over the curled buds. No one on the playground stops.
Kids sprint past the garden. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. She pats a smear of mud on a stem with her thumb and shakes her head.
A green thread pokes out from one bud. Then another. Bramble drops the watering can — CLANG — and scrambles closer.
One, two, three tiny petals peel open. She holds her breath. A single golden petal unfurls, slow as a yawn.
Spring arrives. The garden erupts — pink, yellow, orange, purple — all at once. The flowers just keep blooming.
The whole school stops mid-stride on the wet playground. A boy drops his sandwich. A girl's backpack slides off one shoulder. Nobody moves.
She tips up the red watering can. Empty. She just grins. A bee hums over a marigold. Her scuffed shoes are muddy to the ankle.
