The woman watched the flower, day in and day out, waiting and hoping for growth. It was her most prized possession, something of the utmost value to her, and she cared for it better than she cared for herself. Truthfully, the woman was an old woman, feeble, and often misunderstood as dead or dying. But the woman was healthy, her cheeks rosy, her mind happy, and her flower watered weekly and fed sunlight from the window daily. Oftentimes the woman forgot to eat or clean herself, but this little flower in a small brown pot, never forgotten once. The woman took pride in her flower. 

As she walked the town she told everyone about her flower. In her hunched position, she would whisper to the children of the town that they must come to see her flower and to meet her mother, who lived in the same apartment. The children would utter back a simple maybe, but would then pursue their parents and shake in fear from the cold feeling the old woman gave them. Even after she had gone, the children reeked of an odd smell. Most explained the smell as the outside air; but those who really knew the woman, like her mother,  knew it was the smell of her. Of something old, and dying.

Over time, the woman became feared. Some wondered what the woman had said to put the others off, but they could never quite understand where she had gone wrong. Through different recallings and tellings of the stories of the old woman, she became the talk of the town. For years, as she passed, people would laugh and look and point, and the woman slowly, but surely, was driven to stay home with her lonely little flower. 

The town noticed that each night the woman's light would turn on at eight, be on until six in the morning, and would switch off again. The woman never left her house, never changed her routine, and never spoke to anyone. All anyone knew of her was the little flower that sat on her windowsill, ever-changing, but never moving. The flower was there for many years. Nobody in the town could remember a time in which the flower was not there. Children talked about the flower, wondering what was so important about it and why it was still in the woman's house after such time. Through each and every winter, the flower began to wither more and more. The petals fell to the ground and gathered in a pile in the woman's apartment; yet they were never cleaned up. 

 The woman never seemed to notice at all, and the flower still sat on her windowsill. Throughout the years, the flower became unmoved, untouched other than the weekly watering, but seemingly dying for decades at this point. Not far from the gray cracked and brittle flower was the couch the old woman sat on for hours each day in silence. 

When the woman heard knocking on her door, she didn't answer for the first 10 minutes. She simply believed she was imagining it. However, standing on the opposite side of the door, was the new woman in town. She was younger, but not young. She had brown hair and brown eyes and a confident look to her. When the old woman finally realized the knocking was true, she went to open the door. Her feeble body, barely able to open the large and heavy door, cracked the exit open slightly. The new town woman smiled slightly and introduced herself as mary. Mary explained how she had just moved here, and has been wondering why the old woman never came outside. Nobody would tell her why, so Mary explained that she had to find out for herself. The old woman opened up her door slightly farther, to let Mary inside.

When Mary finally stepped inside, the smell of the old woman filled her nose. She breathed in heavily, taking in the room, the dust on the tables, the sun shining through the windows, and the damp smell of an old, old, apartment. When Mary ended her state of trance, she looked to the woman for guidance. The old woman gestured to the couch, in hopes of getting Mary to stay for a while. Without human contact for so long, the old woman had grown cold and sad. She simply pleaded with her eyes for Mary to stay, and Mary nodded and sat down with her, cautiously, but with care. 

The whole room was filled with memorabilia from the old woman's life. Old pictures scattered the furniture, and old knick-knacks and clothes scattered the floor. At a point, Mary even thought that the room seemed to be frozen in time, a time when the old woman was not old, nor shunned, nor ridiculed, but rather just treated like a normal human being. To the old woman, the memories scattered in the apartment felt like such distant echoes of the past, that she could barely remember that those memories were ever what her life was like. Mary's eyes were drawn to the windowsill, where the once vibrant flower now stood as a relic of resilience against the passage of time. Mary stood, slowly, with fear that the old woman would tell her to sit back down. She walked over to the windowsill, and looked closely at the now wilted flower. 

With hesitation, Mary looked back at the woman, questioning filling her face. The woman simply closed her eyes and said “the flower is me…”  Mary stopped dead in her tracks, confused as to what the woman meant. When the woman opened her eyes she realized the confusion and began to explain how through time, the flower was taken care of in the same way she was. She told of how when the flower was bright and lively, so was she. How when the flower looked old, tired, and neglected, so was she. The flower was not simply a possession of the woman, but it was the woman; every part of the flower and her were the same, connected. 

Over the following weeks, Mary became a regular visitor. She brought life back to the apartment, cleaning away the layers of dust and organizing the forgotten corners. Together, the woman and Mary tended to the forgotten little seed, bringing life back to the flower in ways that the flower had not seen in years. The apartment was transformed from the old and neglected home that it was into a beautiful and cared for place, and with it, the woman changed too. Her life was now full of color and her scent now one of beautiful flowers. Mary could see the light and happiness return to the woman's spirit.  The weight of isolation lifted, and a spark of joy returned to her eyes. 

Mary visited as often as she could, bringing the old woman gifts and trinkets from her adventures as a young woman. One day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow through the apartment's windows, the woman sat on the couch, resting. Mary began her walk to the old woman's house, with nothing but excitement within her. As she reached the door of the apartment, she realized the door was cracked open. Mary immediately went inside, calling for the woman. She looked all over the apartment in her fit of frantics, desperate to find the woman safe and sound. As Mary began to breathe harder, hands shaking and heart racing, she looked to her side, where she found the woman sitting happily in the sun of the windows on the couch, holding the flower within her hands. Mary sat next to her, placing her hand on the woman's shoulder in solace. the old woman, with a fragile yet genuine smile, slowly opened her mouth to utter, "Thank you, Mary. You gave an old woman back her life."

With a slight tear falling from Mary's left eye, she realized the fate of the woman. With a slow grin, Mary lay her head on their woman, sitting in silence as the heavy breathing of the woman came to a sudden stop. When Mary finally raised her head after the sun had set, eyes filled with tears and face puffy from the whisper of despair within her head, she looked at the woman. With nothing but care and love, Mary retrieved the flower they together saved, and left the apartment. The flower of Apartment 203 had become a symbol of resilience, a living testament that even the most withered aspects of life could bloom again with a touch of care and understanding. The woman too, would never leave the mind of Mary, and the flower would never see another day uncared for. 

In the days that followed, Mary continued to care for the apartment, tending to the once-neglected flower with a stronger devotion than ever before. The once withered flower, brown and forgotten, would never return, now overcome by a radiant flower. The yellow and orange petals were a vibrant testament to the cycles of life and the enduring impact of connection.

Mary knew now how much of a difference she made within the woman's life, giving her the love and care both she and the flower needed. And so, she thought how even in the final moments, life could bloom anew, and the touch of compassion could alter everything someone has ever known.