There wasn’t much in Ernest’s life left. His fleeting youth had passed, and the stagnation of old age had caught up with him. Ernest was a cold man, his surface rough as the stone walls of a long-abandoned cottage in an open field. He found life to be tiresome, and people even more. The one thing that made the unsmiling exterior of Ernest melt was his granddaughter, Grace.

Every Sunday they walked together; Grace happily skipping beside Ernest, the light bubbling out from her cutting through his gloomy clouds. Her jubilant laughter could be heard over the fields and forest as they walked, daisies blooming like a wake as she passed by. She loved her dear grandpa, almost as much as he loved her.

This Sunday, they didn’t take a walk. Grace curled up beside her grandpa on the small, hard hospital bed. He didn’t want her to cry, so he wove her a beautiful story. A story of a lonely stone cottage and the glowing sun keeping it company. He told her about the daisies the sun grew and how happy the cottage felt.

Grace held Ernest’s hand as he took his last breath, still blooming in her wake.


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