The crocuses refused to bloom no matter what Dylan tried – water, food, artificial sunlight. He had even sung to them, though his mother insisted he had a bad singing voice.
"Stop that racket. You'll scare them to death," said Florence from the safety of the alcove.
Dylan glanced up at his mother in the metal wheelchair he had brought home only a week ago. He could envision the chair in a few months - empty, folded, leaning against a wall. The wall in question didn't matter as any wall would look bare without her.
"I'll get the crocuses to bloom mother. I swear I will."
"It's not the end of the world, dear. "
Dylan nodded at her, then at the house.
He had never lived alone.
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