How Daisies Learned Open Hands — At the quiet train station, the floor brush went swish-swish under the benches. Read the full story →
At the quiet train station, the floor brush went swish-swish under the benches. Liora wanted the little potted daisy by the ticket window to stand tall for the night train, but its stem leaned like a sleepy straw. In her pocket, she carried a smooth blue coat button from her papa’s old jacket. She rubbed it when the rails hummed and the station felt too big.
The water jug was empty. No one saw Liora press the button into the dry soil and whisper, “Hold this for me.” Cool moonlight slid through the glass roof. The daisy drank the tiny bit of dew gathered on the button and lifted one leaf, then the other, as if giving back a hug. Ever since, potted daisies grow two open leaves to remember quiet gifts nobody watched; next time you see those leaves, can you spot where Liora’s button might be hiding?
