The Wild Whisper

I found it one morning, standing stubbornly in the forgotten corner of my backyard.
A tiny wildflower, fragile as a whisper, growing in an old, cracked pot where nothing was meant to survive.
It wasn’t planted, it wasn’t cared for—yet there it was, soft and stubborn, dressed in white puffs like a dandelion dreaming of the sky.

Everyone would have called it a weed.
Useless, messy, a mistake.
But to me, it was something else.
It was defiance made delicate.
A tiny rebellion against the idea that beauty needs permission to exist.

Sometimes I would sit beside it, feeling like it and I shared the same secret:
we weren’t supposed to bloom here.
But we did, anyway.

The world didn’t give it a chance.
The world didn’t give me one, either.
But maybe beauty is louder when it’s born from nothing.
Maybe surviving is its own kind of art.

But as I looked closer, I realized... it was already dead.
No green stems, no fresh leaves—only dry, brittle flowers clinging stubbornly to the thin, twisted branches.

And yet, somehow, it was still beautiful.
Even in its stillness, even in its fading, it held a kind of quiet grace.
A reminder that even when life has slipped away, beauty can linger for a little while longer.

I smiled to myself.
I didn’t have the heart to throw it away.
So I left it there, a little piece of forgotten magic, resting in an old pot where no one thought anything could survive.