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.