The Old Man
barren yard.
Neighbors whispered: “Too late in the season.”
He watered it anyway, humming the tune his wife used to sing.
Weeks passed. Nothing. Then, one stubborn green stalk broke the soil. He cheered, frail hands trembling, heart pounding.
By autumn, only a single golden bloom faced the sky. He sat beneath it in his rocking chair, smiling. When his chair fell still, his heart stopped pounding, the sunflower kept watch, its face tilted toward the setting sun as a silent farewell.
The neighbors stopped whispering. They planted sunflowers, too.