She was gone.

​

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen that place. A field without flowers, nowhere near the city of his birth, far from the familiar crests and slopes of the Italian countryside, the fields where he’d pulled strands of grass to throw at his brothers and sisters. Perhaps that was the point. There were no memories here.

​

And yet, he could not outrun them. The memories. They caught at his thoughts, played in his mind.

​

He hadn’t held her. When she’d been born, he’d lingered outside the hospital room, waiting for that first cry to split the air. And when it finally did, when that soft little wail trickled out from the crack in the door, it took everything in his power not to rush in and greet her, hold her against his chest. Did she have his eyes? His sister’s ears? His granddaughter’s mouth? Did she smell the way his son had, that milky, sweet scent that only infants bore? Would she smile at him?

​

He’d always cried, when one of them was born. After so many, he’d thought it might cheapen the experience, that the miracle of new life would cease to be a miracle, and instead become only another of the aspects of living, a blip in the countless years. But it never had. He never could get over the thrill of it. The wonder. His son, his grandson and granddaughter, and their children, and their children, and their children, and on through the centuries. Every birth. He hadn’t missed one. He’d been close, a few times. But he’d always arrived in time to hear that first tiny cry.

​

He hadn’t held them. He’d tried, at first. He’d introduced himself as Uncle Monty, played the part of the eccentric uncle, the one who showed up at the least expected times bearing enormous bouquets and extravagant gifts, and showering praise upon the children.

​

But then, the incident had occurred. A great-granddaughter, already wrinkled with time and smelling of calla lilies. She’d Kindled at Monty’s touch, the fire spreading through her soul and Awakening her to the wonders of his world, the world humanity had long forgotten. He’d tried to explain, in stammering words. It was a gift, not a curse. She’d had nothing to fear. She’d be taken care of.

​

But the god-fearing great-granddaughter had stumbled right into the arms of that church, convinced she’d been demon-marked, convinced that the apparitions she saw filling the air were devils poised and ready to strike at her soul.

​

He’d pulled back after that. He hadn’t wanted to lose anyone else.

​

So he’d settled for messengers, for anonymous flowers and mysterious donations when it was most needed. And listening at the door, waiting for the cries of his descendants’ first breaths.

​

But now, there would be no more cries.

​

He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d chosen that place, beneath the single tree in the center of the Irish countryside. There were no cars. The roads sat silent across the field. Empty. No screeching of tires, no shattering of windows, no bodies crumpled and broken against the blacktop.

​

There was only the orphanage, on the opposite hill. The laughter of children floated across the field. None of them were his children. There would never be any more of his children.

​

He still wore the black suit from the funeral. Grass and dirt smeared against the back of the sharply-pressed legs. He held his hat in his hands, and rested his head against the bark of the tree. It poked against the bareness of his scalp.

​

The scent of chrysanthemum wafted from his hands. He had tended all their graves, from his wife and son, and down through the line. Now, there would be only graves. Only chrysanthemums. The flower of mourning. The flower his wife had placed at their table for every meal, scoffing at the connotations. “It is too beautiful to belong to the dead,” she’d said. And for a brief time, for a brief moment in their little vineyard, the flower had become hers. Lisa’s flower. The flower of her laugh, her smile, the little moments they’d shared behind the shed, her bread and their wine and his poetry. And then she’d died, and once again, the chrysanthemum belonged to the dead.

A shadow fell across his hands. His head rose.

​

A little girl stood over him. One of the orphans. She couldn’t have been more than four.

​

She looked nothing like him. Freckles splattered over a button nose, ears poking out from between fiery curls. Nothing like Lisa’s dark hair, nothing like Lisa’s thin face and sharp chin.

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But there was something in her eyes. She stared at him with eyes like dawn over a still pool. Her gaze lingered on his cheeks, at the streaks stained there.

​

In her hands, she held a sunflower. And without a word, she extended it to him.

​

He took it. The thick stalk prickled against his fingertips, the yellow of the petals so bright it seemed almost painted on.

​

And before he could say a word, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her head nestled against his shoulder.

Ten minutes later, the orphanage caretaker stumbled up the field. Her breath came ragged at her throat. She called out a name, voice cracking. “Kerra!”

​

But there was no reply. There was only the wind in the grass, the swaying of the branches in the lone tree, a single yellow petal resting at the base of its trunk.