"Nate brings them," Nick says. "Every three days or so. Even when the old ones are still perfectly good, still fully bloomed."
I look up at him.
My heart hammers in my chest.
"He does?"
Nick is quiet for a moment, looking at Jake's grave with reverence.
"He told me once that he never wants Jake to stop breathing life. That as long as there are living flowers here, some part of Jake is still connected to the world above ground. Still participating in growth and color and beauty."
Tears blur my vision.
"He grows them himself, down at Westbrook—" Nick stops abruptly, clears his throat. "Anyway, he wants Jake to always have something new. Always have life that's just beginning, not life that's already peaked and starting to fade."
I stare at the flowers.
"He grows them himself?"
"Yeah. Ever since he got out of rehab."
My hands tremble as I touch the bright yellow petals.
"And he does this every three days?" I ask.
"Without fail. Has for seven years."
Every three days for seven years.
That's over eight hundred and fifty times.
This is who Nate is.
Someone who never lets anything truly die. Who keeps bringing life to places touched by death. Who shows up, again and again, even when no one's watching. Even when it would be easier not to.
He does it for Jake.
He does it for this town.
He does it for the people he loves.
He did it for me—kept loving me for seven years even when I was gone.
Kept my birthday as his phone passcode.
Kept a space for me in his life even when I'd filled mine with someone else.
"He's never stopped, has he?" I ask quietly. "Believing in things even when they seem impossible."
"No," Nick says simply. "That's not who he is."
I stand up slowly, looking at the flowers one more time.
Every three days for seven years. Over eight hundred and fifty times Nate has driven to this cemetery, bought fresh sunflowers, and placed them here for a brother who can't see them.
For a brother who's been gone longer than he was alive in Nate's adult life.
Eight hundred and fifty times he's chosen to show up.
