Ever since you were born, your father knew you would be a handful. Both your parents took immaculate care of you in your early years. Your mother, a kindhearted lady, would bring you out into the backyard to admire her garden, while your father silently watched from the patio every time. The garden was full of the most beautiful flowers you had ever seen, with sunflowers being your favorite.

Her unfortunate passing came when you were only a toddler, and your father promised to upkeep her garden even after she was gone. He took over the ritual of bringing you out to tend to it, but it was never quite the same. Your memories of your mother, though few, were full of love. Your love for the sunflowers she had shown you never dulled. Your father was now a widowed man, raising a little troublemaker all by himself. He naturally tried his best with you, but there was a permanent silence that echoed through the house. Alongside gardening, you grew to love every other type of art, especially drawing.

Your young drawings often ended up plastered all over the house walls. Oddly enough, your father loved the mess. He cherished seeing your creativity shine through as you grew. He'd only wipe the walls down every now and then to make space for new memories. This morning, he awoke to find you drawing a replica of the garden on the kitchen wall. You hadn't yet noticed him standing behind you, watching you use the worn-down yellow crayon for sunflower petals.