Everybody
has a story. And her story's scenery is a Yorkshire's house. In her garden you
can count thousands of flower types, such as tulips, roses, edelweisses and
daisies. And marigolds. Marigolds which shone during summer, had illnesses in
autumn, died in winter. But they always blossomed again in spring.
And so they kept living, year after year,
until last winter. Last winter these flowers died, but didn't blossom in
springtime. They didn't. Neither did she.
Nobody knew
anything about her, about her life. And when she passed away, nobody looked
after the garden. Nobody.
Today the house is there, intact, just the way it
looked when she was alive. But there
aren't any flowers anymore, just a vast meadow. And, in the middle of this
meadow, there is a small, little, lonely and yellow flower. The last of the
last flowers.
It's a young marigold, trying to live, not to
die, on this cold, white winter day.
