The nurses thought someone was playing a prank.
Every morning, the same wheelchair appeared in the hospital garden.
Always beside the same flower bed.
Always facing the roses.
Nobody knew who moved it.
Nobody admitted doing it.
Every evening it was returned indoors.
Every morning it appeared again.
Then a new nurse checked the name attached to the chair.
And immediately felt tears in her eyes.
Because the patient who owned it had died months earlier.
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The wheelchair had belonged to Margaret.
A retired schoolteacher.
A widow.
A grandmother.
During her final year, she spent countless afternoons in the hospital garden.
Especially beside the roses.
Her husband had planted roses for her every anniversary during their marriage.
Looking at them brought comfort.
After she passed away, nurses occasionally found her wheelchair outside.
Nobody could explain it.
Eventually they discovered the truth.
An elderly groundskeeper had been moving it.
Every morning before sunrise.
Every evening before going home.
When asked why, he simply shrugged.
Then said:
“She loved those roses.”
The staff later placed a small memorial plaque beside the flower bed.
The wheelchair stopped appearing after that.
As if the gardener finally felt she had her place.
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