Nobody knew where the boy who tended the fields lived.

Nobody knew where he went in the

night and where he came from in the morning.

He was a mystery, but he was not threatening. He wasn’t ominous, he was a big toothy smile.
Sunshine.

The garden he tended was a patch of green in a sea of gray. The clouds, the roads, the
buildings, and the people. Gray reigned solemnly. There was hustle and bustle, there was
smoke and shadows, but people went and they went back.

There was no in between, no meandering the line, zigzagging off the path.

The boy was the only one who didn’t seem to be running from one place to another. The only
one who seemed to have time. Everyone had seen him, and he knew everyone.

Maybe that was why the field grew so well, because he provided them with the nutrients only he
had. His sunshine smile.

One day, I didn’t see him in the field. He had left his patch of green and was standing in the
middle of the gray wave, tapping on people’s shoulders, all who brushed him off with a “No,
thank you.”

He stopped a gray man before he went into his gray office building. “Please, sir, would you blow
on this for me.”

The gray man huffed at the thought, and walked past, but then he came back and puffed at the
dandelion in the boy’s hands. The petals floated on the gray winds, before settling in the cracks
of the gray sidewalk.