Just as the old woman had told me, I planted the seed in a pot. I put it in the dark cupboard all through the winter, looking at it again and again as the pale sprout emerged through the soil.
In the spring, however, I grew ill, and then busy. Work, exams, sickness, troubles. I forgot about the pale green sprout, forgot to water it or take it out on the windowsill for the golden sun.
In the winter, clearing out the cupboard, on the darkest day of the year, I found the pot. Dead, dry brown leaves, and a blackened dead flower.
Within a dry, brown seed pod, there you were. Tiny, pale, rattling.
I put you in a basket with a hot water bottle, wrapped in a blanket, with a saucer of milk and blood.
In the morning, the saucer was broken, the basket was cracked, and you were gone.