“Sammy, is that you again?”
The light had a softness to it this morning — a sort of hush that settled on the garden like snow, though the grass was green and glistening with dew. Daisy pressed her fingertips to the cold windowpane, watching the gate sway on its hinges.
She didn’t remember leaving it open.
She never remembered much these days. Not in the usual order, anyway.
But she knew Sammy had been here. She’d felt the tug in her chest the moment her eyes opened, the same tug that always pulled her to the window.
“They don’t want you coming, do they?” she murmured. “They always take you back.”
Behind her, the room was filled with dust motes and silence. A cup of tea sat cooling on the side table. Untouched.
She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. And there it was — the laughter, distant and boyish, echoing off water and stone. She was seventeen again, barefoot on the riverbank, shouting for him to slow down. Sammy had always run ahead. Always chasing frogs or dragons or whatever his wild little heart fancied.
He would bring her daisies. Scruffy little bunches held in muddy fists. Never roses, never tulips — just simple white-and-yellow daisies, because “they are your name.”
She turned, and the room shifted. It wasn’t the care home now. It was the sitting room of the old house. Mum’s knitting basket. Dad’s radio humming. The smell of burnt toast from the kitchen.
“Daisy!” he’d shout from outside. “Race you to the orchard!”
She could never beat him. But that hadn’t stopped her from trying.
A door creaked behind her, and she blinked. The room snapped back. Pale paint. Plastic flowers. A laminated notice reminding her of the date.
She sat slowly in the armchair, ignoring the ache in her knees.
Later, when the nurse came in — Josie, the one with the lilac scrubs — she was staring at the corner of the room, eyes wide, lips parted as if listening.
“You all right, Daisy?”
She nodded. “He was just here. You missed him.”
Josie smiled gently. “Who was here, love?”
“Sammy.” Daisy turned to her. “He didn’t stay long.”
Josie set down a tray. Toast. Marmalade. A boiled egg with its top neatly sliced off. “Emily’s coming today. You’ll be pleased — you always say she reminds you of someone.”
Daisy frowned. “Emily?”
“The volunteer,” Josie said softly. “She’s been visiting every Thursday for months.”
Daisy looked back to the window. “She’s kind.”
“She is.”
Emily arrived with a bunch of tulips and a quiet warmth that never felt forced. She kissed Daisy’s cheek and chatted about the weather, the market, the new book she was reading. Daisy listened, head tilted, eyes flickering with something like memory.
“You’ve got Sammy’s eyes,” she said finally.
Emily hesitated, then smiled. “You told me that the first time we met.”
“I did?”
“Mmhmm.” Emily’s voice was light. “You said he always had kind eyes, and you liked kind eyes.”
“I do,” Daisy said softly, as though it were news to her. “He was only little. Always picking me daisies.”
Emily reached into her bag and unfolded a fragile clipping, its edges yellowed with time.
LOCAL BOY LOST IN RIVER TRAGEDY.
Samuel J. Whitmore, 11, presumed drowned after falling through ice on Old Mill Pond. Body never recovered.
Daisy’s lips parted. “Oh,” she whispered. “I remember now. I was supposed to be watching him. But I turned away for just a second.”
Emily reached out and took her hand. “You’ve remembered that before, too.”
Daisy blinked. Her eyes filled, then cleared. “He still comes sometimes. Not always when I call, but in the mornings… when the gate’s open.”
Emily gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe he never really left.”
That evening, Josie found Daisy asleep by the window, the tulips resting on her lap. The tea was cold again. The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Josie paused. Called her name once. Then softly again. She moved closer and touched her shoulder.
Daisy’s hand was cool. Her face, peaceful — a faint smile playing at her lips, as though caught mid-laugh by something only she could see.
The doctor came. The necessary forms were signed. Josie sat for a long while beside her, one hand resting on Daisy’s.
“She always waited by the window,” she murmured. “Said he came in the mornings.”
Before leaving, Josie turned to close the curtains. But something caught her eye.
On the outside windowsill, where no one had been all day, lay a small bunch of daisies.
Fresh.
Still damp from dew.
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