*THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

the grass is damp and cool. he forgets his shoes and steps in. sinks a bit into the ground, then walks, slow and distracted.
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ahead, a handful of red rosebuds peek up at him. he pauses, but they are too young, still tightly bundled around their red center, a flash of what might be but hasn't yet.

he passes them by.

he comes across a discordant patch of yellow pansies next, happy and tightly clustered. but there's a hole in the center of the patch, dark in the night and off-center, like someone closed their eyes and ripped out what they touched. he eyes the hole.

he passes them by.
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then it's a single pink chrysanthemum, large and beautiful, fluttering inches above the tall grass, unexpected. he didn't expect to see it, but he does, and he stops, watches for a few seconds. the chrysanthemum is so perfect it feels false, unreal. his fingertips stop a few inches away and he drops his hand. never mind.

he passes it by.
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the forget-me-nots are back-- he's seen these before, they always seem to catch his eye, though he's been down this path before. they are small, partially covered by weeds, and their petals are brushed with dirt. he can't help it; he reaches down and brushes off some of the dirt. hesitates, but turns away.

he passes them by.
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he almost walks past it, but something makes him turn his head, and he finds a lily in the back, tucked behind a tree. this one seems the most promising yet, so he tests the stem, gives it a light tug. the flower doesn't give. winks up at him, like it knows a secret he doesn't know yet. annoyed, he leaves.

he passes it by.

but now, he's back where he started. his feet are wet now, muddy with dirt, and his hands are empty.

ultimately, he's failed.
‍

but come next night, he'll be back: back in the garden, hunting for the flower that will last him a lifetime.