Everyone thought he was crazy.
The old woman next door had died months earlier.
Her house was empty.
Her garden was dead.
Brown flowers.
Dry soil.
Broken fence.
Yet every morning at 7 AM…
the neighbor watered the garden.
Carefully.
Patiently.
Day after day.
People laughed.
Until one little girl asked:
“Why are you watering dead flowers?”
The old man stopped.
Looked at the house.
And answered:
“Because she planted them for someone.”
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The old woman had spent years caring for foster children.
Every child who stayed with her planted a flower.
Some stayed weeks.
Others years.
The garden became a memory of dozens of children.
When she died, nobody cared about the flowers anymore.
Except her neighbor.
He remembered every child.
Every story.
Every flower.
So every morning…
he watered them.
Not because plants matter.
But because memories do.
One summer afternoon, a young woman knocked on his door.
She had once been one of those foster children.
She looked at the garden.
Started crying.
And whispered:
“You kept us alive too.”
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