Bloom, I told myself, willing myself into Heaven. Blossom into your new life.

And then I died. I wasn't a human anymore but something else. I knew because of the dark, and because I didn't panic in said darkness. I had a pulse, strangely, but I didn't feel it radiating from where my heart used to be. The life rhythm traveled all over, tracing the outline of my amorphous essence. I had no eyes but I could see. And no brain but I could process. And despite my utter lack of physicality and nerves, I could feel the warmth, the heat, the presence of light. The light was inside, expanding, pushing against my edges and taking them over. And in a smooth, seamless process, that light had become my vessel.

My education was swift and easy. I'd died and suddenly possessed the knowledge of what came next. Souls just have a way of catching on.

But I had no memories. Death had to cost you, so I assumed.

*

One day I began to take shape, becoming thin, long, artfully curved. After a while, I became solid again, surrounded by a shifting graininess. Pebbles? Maybe sand? I didn't have the answers—how could I? I'd just gotten here. Or rather, I'd returned.

I sprouted from my grave—not just me, but my neighbors too.

Sunflowers, that's what we were. Brilliant yellows had broken through every tomb, pushing aside the dried dead roses from past visits. And there it was: the good feeling, the light.

The sun's rays felt differently. It'd never felt this way against human skin, but the flowerhead and leaf life was a different game. We were comforted, supported, fed, and loved all at once. Everyone had always talked about miracles in terms of light and now I knew why. What had I done to deserve such a feeling?

The groundskeeper noticed us first. He'd never seen so many flowers in the cemetery before. He walked between the rows and rows of graves, confused, shocked, and resigned to what he believed were ghosts. He wasn't wrong; his apprehension made sense. But he did as we'd all done at some point: he asked for help.

"Francois," he said.

How may I help? The phone said, its tone sounded rich and sophisticated, as if it were history's most elite butler.

"How do you tend sunflowers?"

*

At first he was just a person, a human creature with skillful hands and a kind, gravelly voice. We learned his name, his work schedule, his family ties. Wayne tended us at sunrise, and set sprinkler times throughout the day. When he needed flower-tending guidance, he asked François, and François obliged him with website links, video tutorials. Pruning tips. Watering tips. Nice things to say to us. François was a revolution unto himself and I wondered if I had my own François during my own human life.

Needless today, Wayne maintained us immaculately. With his groundskeeping skills and François's guidance, he couldn't lose.

After he completed his daily work list he'd fall into the habits of a typical human man. He scrolled his phone when he was tired. He took long lunches and sometimes sat in his car, playing phone games with François. Most days he rushed the last of his gardening work and sped out of the parking lot, the WAYNE-1 license plate immediately disappearing down the road.

Wayne deserved it, too, he really did. Whatever he had going on post-sunset, I hoped it made him happy. But when he left, my pulse quickened. The mysterious pulse, the feeling of uncertainty, the feeling that maybe I hadn't yet reached the limit of our blossoming. I shifted in my little tomb in painstaking contemplation. What next? I told myself. What am I going to do next?

*

Over time, I grew large—we all did. High, high, high. The cemetery appeared as a massive bouquet, each sunflower stretching skywards, becoming as tall as Wayne himself. And with my human stature, I began feeling like a person again. In fact, traces of my human memories began to return.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The memories flared up, mostly when the cemetery had visitors. Tons of people flooded into the cemetery with their partners and kids. Our collective gravesite became more like a community garden, a sunny maze for couples to hold hands in or for the children to run through with reckless abandon. People gazed at our flower heads, ran their fingers through our petals. They caressed us like their loved ones. Some even hugged us, squeezed us, cried into us. In those moments, I'd see the face of a person I'd hugged or remember the smell of a loved ones' soap. I didn't know that I'd missed these feelings so much. The gift of this tenderness surpassed the sun.

*

One sunset, after Wayne cut the sprinklers off and rushed to his car and pulled out of the parking lot, there was an accident: the sound of rubber squeaking, metal clashing, fire crackling in the distance. Sirens. The night was tinted in blue and red strobes. When the sirens were muted and the emergency lights deactivated, the evening went on as usual. But for the first time since becoming a flower I prayed.

Five days later, Wayne was buried in our cemetery. He had siblings, a few friends, and kids. He had a wife, an ex-girlfriend, and another ex-girlfriend. He was one of the rare types who could go from lovers to lifelong friends. Even his high school English teacher showed up. He'd lived a good life. After tears, brief words, and prayer, he was buried two rows away from me, a man returned to the roots.

After the burial, I waited for him to sprout to the surface. There was a new groundskeeper, Alex(?), Alexei(?)—I was too sad to care. And while he didn't have a François, he watered and trimmed us plenty. He was good at what he did and so me and the others continued to thrive. I gazed upon the damp fields, waiting for Wayne's latent roots to absorb the life-giving moisture. His gravestone remained polished and pristine. Wayne chose rest.

Nights, after the newbie drove off with his ALEKS-$ license plate, the what-now questions bounced within my stem. As a flower, unable to move or work off the energy build-up, my soul became the most uncomfortable it's ever been. It was torture, being trapped in the prison of anxiety. But that's how I knew that a change was coming. Like I said earlier, the soul knows what the soul knows—

When you gonna stop all that shaking? Wayne's voice was the same as ever, maintaining that same coarseness despite the telepathy.

You're alive! Well, alive-ish.

Yes. Yes I am. And your shaky stem is shifting around all the dirt, man.

I can't help that, I'm going through a thing.

Then do it with some sturdiness, Jesus Christ.

It's...it's my first time speaking to you. Thanks for all the water.

Don't mention it.

And you're a master with the sheers.

You talk a whole lot. Just bloom already and let me be.

I grow, I feel, and I sun magnificently. What else is there?

You'll see.

See what, though? Wayne don't leave me hanging.

Look, it's nap time. Nice meeting ya.

Okay Wayne, Rest In Peace.

And that was that. He went off into the ether, the ethereal version of speeding off in his car. By morning he hadn't returned either. The tombstone was cracked in the middle, though, a small green sprout breaking through.

*

Folks began to visit the cemetery. They couldn't see the graves—the overgrowth being so significant—but they appreciated the beauty anyway. Everyone touched our petals and took pictures and swung around our stems. They said we had a good smell. That we were a tribute to their lost ones. That we were blessed by one god or the next. Maybe all were true or none were true. But when they were here I liked the company. And when they weren't I tried not to be depressed.

Days passed. Weeks. Months. And I hadn't seen my own family. I didn't know what they looked like. But the memories began to surge within me. An energy, a restlessness, plagued me. I wanted a way out. Or better yet, a way to bring them in.

And in the days that passed I put my all into blooming. Yes, I'd grown, but I could be brighter—with fuller petals, and the dazzling openness everyone liked to see. Life would see me once again, and I'd let its light in.

At last I had a purpose to my newfound strength. My family, I needed to see them. Finally, they'd know that I was alright, and that even within this strange, petaled death, my love would forever reach them.

One day, she appeared. A human woman. Her face, her hair, her clothes—her entire presence triggered memories, a soul-deep reaction to her. I couldn't remember who she was. I only sensed her importance to me. I'd waited for her. I'd craved her.

The woman brought a kid, too, a toddler.

And a newborn in her arms.

And my reactions to them were just as strong.

The pulse in me intensified. Sun, sun, sun. I absorbed all that I could. As these people walked the fields of faceless flowers, now illegible tombs, I needed them to notice me. My only option was to shine.

"Babe?" she said.

My soul quivered.

"It's beautiful here."

My petals stretched like wings.

She stood in the clearing, turning, searching, looking concerned.

It was a hot day. The sun beamed behind us, drawing each flowerhead toward it—except for me. I continued facing the woman, my petals opening. She needed to see me. It was my only hope.

And then she turned toward me. Her brown eyes acknowledged the man I was, the flower I'd become. I couldn't talk. I couldn't move. I couldn't touch her face or tease our toddler or hold our baby.

She stepped toward me; the child skipped; the baby just squirmed. It didn't matter that their lives went on as my soul took root in the cemetery. It didn't matter that in the midst of these bright sunflowers my current home was a field of death before all else. What mattered was that when the woman embraced me the memories returned, years of care and love coursing through me. Bloom? Is this bloom? I had no way of knowing. And the knowing didn't matter. All that mattered was this feeling of me, a stone blossom, finally reaching light.