The petals peeled off like skin on a sunburnt neck. Flaked away, then blew nonchalantly in the hollow breeze stretching before him. A warm gust sighed out of his equally flaked lips; a remnant of dust diverged up the shell of a mask that covered his face. He gave one last contemplative look at the tiny flower, opened a cherished handkerchief with blackened edges and lay the flower in the centre with the delicacy of a mortician.

The land was harsh before him. Scorched by a unforgiving God. Whenever he walked a rough mile, he contemplated the next time he would see a smile or hear a cry. He had endured it yet missed the simple routines: collecting a morning paper; critiquing his inept government; shaving with a new razor; drinking clear tap water. The simple pleasures. An anger formed around the car fob in his pocket. The edges were roughened from their original design, he palmed the whole thing and considered how they jingled with familiarity. His muscles began to lose tension, his hand opened like a blossoming dahlia. He calmed his shattered nerves then trudged on.

It wasn’t long until his trudging became rhythmic. Every fall of his boot felt heavier than the last. In his delirious mind, he attempted to preoccupy himself with lyrics from songs about the sun. ‘Don’t look back into the sun’, ‘Walking on Sunshine’ but they all failed to quell his intense boredom.

Trip. Fall. Fell.

He blinked twice and then shot straight up to his feet. Surprising himself at this dexterity. Adjusting his mask over his eyes and comprehending the object before his boots. A child.

Eight, maybe ten he pondered. But what shocked him more than the discovery of a dead body, was the fact her face was indistinguishable. Her statue-like small frame was undisturbed, her hands clutched a pocket sized photo. With the realisation that she’d been attacked by the elements and wildlife, he took pity on this poor soul. He longed to cradle her in her dying moments, knowing he could never have saved her life. He delved into his non-key pocket and removed his cherished handkerchief. It furled as he removed it. The flower dropped to the floor, which he hastily leapt on top of to seize it from the gust that awaited to kidnap the delicate thing. What happened next was minutes in reality, but he fell into it ceremoniously. Flower in his left thumb and forefinger, handkerchief bundled in his right. He laid the fabric over her face and after a solemn moment he slipped the almost petal-less flowers in her hand with her photo. He refused to look at the photo. Instead he wanted to leave her profile the way he encountered it. Questions of her arrival and facial lacerations were rife in his head. He only paused for a moment then broke the silence.

“You’re not alone.”

He walked away. Leaving her with the flower and her anonymity.