The sun dipped behind tented stalls, painting the pavement in gold as the couple inched forward, his hand steady on her elbow. In front of them, a tired woman hummed quietly, her grocery bag tucked close against her; behind, a boy spun a wilted daisy between his fingers, careful not to let its petals fall.

Soft voices drifted, as strangers traded memories of gardens lost and loved, of cities changed in the span of a single spring. When the vendor at last reached into the crate, holding up the rare, trembling orchid, the couple caught their breath, startled at how gentle hope could feel amid the shimmer of perfume and dusk.

"Let’s call her Marigold," he whispered, as petals brushed her knuckles.