Source A: The last tray

By the time I reached the greenhouse, the caretaker had already stacked the empty trays by the door. A pale square showed where the bench had stood. He had a list folded in his breast pocket and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

“They’re clearing it this afternoon,” he said. “The new room needs the space.”

I looked past him to the far shelf. One pot remained there, its label turned towards the glass. I knew the handwriting before I could read the name. My aunt had written it in the careful capitals she used on birthday cards, as if every letter had to stand up straight.

“I thought you’d taken that one home,” I said.

He shook his head. The answer should have helped. Instead, I felt the sentence I had prepared slip away. I had meant to ask about the pot, not about the years in which she had come here after work, sleeves rolled up, talking to the seedlings as though they were listening.

The caretaker checked his watch. I heard the greenhouse roof ticking in the heat. “There’s still time,” I said, although he had not said there wasn’t. My fingers found the folded note in my pocket and pressed it flat, then folded it again.

I tried to explain that I could look after the plant. I had a place for it. I could learn what it needed. Each promise came out more quickly, and each sounded less convincing than the last.

He put the pencil down on the list. For a moment, neither of us moved. I could have asked again. I could have said her name. Instead I watched the label turn, very slightly, in the draught, until the letters faced the wall.