Rosalind hovered above the forgotten corner of the garden, her pink wings buzzing with pride. For seasons, she had crept here alone, watering and weeding without thanks. She wanted to be the most celebrated guardian in the garden. Today, the bed had erupted into bloom. Petals in pink, purple, and gold spilled across the soil in patterns no one had planted on purpose. Tall sunflowers stood like quiet witnesses, their golden faces turned toward her work. A small pink dragon with butterfly wings darted between the stems, drawn by the sweetness. Voices broke the hush. Guardians arrived in a swarm, gathering around a glowing orb crowned with a pastel mane that marked the spot. They whispered, pointed, and counted blossoms. No one had assigned this patch. No one knew who had done it. Rosalind's wings stilled. The head guardian stepped forward, her face tight, her eyes sweeping the crowd for an answer. Rosalind's tiny watering pail still sat tucked beside the sunflowers, forgotten in her rush this morning. Someone lifted it. Heads turned. Rosalind landed in the soft dirt. "It was me," she said. The whispers stopped. The head guardian's mouth opened, then closed. The secret was over, and now every eye in the garden waited for what came next.