In the meadow where Lumi lived, the flowers grew almost as tall as she was — which wasn't very tall, but still. The sunflowers were tallest of all, their golden faces turned toward the last of the afternoon light, nodding slowly on their long green stems. Lumi looked up at them, her small horn tilted sideways. One, two, three — she counted the open ones. Then she saw it. Right at the edge of the meadow, one sunflower hadn't opened at all. Its petals were folded tight, tucked in, closed like a sleeping fist.
She decided she wanted to say hello to it properly, before the day was done. So she set off through the meadow, picking her way between the tall stems. The flowers pressed close around her — yellow and orange and a deep, velvety red — and the air smelled of warm earth and green things growing. She was nearly halfway across when she heard a small, lopsided buzzing sound. Not a straight-line buzz. A spinning, wobbling, going-sideways buzz.
It was a bee. A very small bee named Pip, and he was tilting in the air like a leaf in a puddle. His back legs were so heavy with collected pollen — great fat yellow clumps of it — that every time he tried to fly straight, he spun slowly to the left instead. "Oh," said Lumi. "That looks difficult." "It IS difficult," said Pip, spinning past her ear.
Lumi looked around. She found a large curved leaf hanging low on its stem, and she nudged it gently with her nose — once, twice — until it bent into a little cradle shape, just the right size for one small, pollen-heavy bee. Pip landed in it with a relieved thump. The leaf bounced once. "Better?" asked Lumi. "Much," said Pip. He shook pollen off his legs, one at a time. She told Pip about the sunflower at the edge of the meadow, the one still folded shut. Pip tilted his head. "Oh, I know about that," he said. "Sunflowers don't only open for light. They open when they feel warm air moving past. A breath of it. That's what they're waiting for."
The closed sunflower was right at the meadow's edge, where the grass grew longer and the ground felt cooler under her hooves. It was taller than she'd expected, and its folded petals were pale at the tips, almost white, curled in tight against the chill. Lumi walked in a slow circle around it. Close enough that her breath moved across the petals — warm and steady and quiet. Once around. Twice around. And then — very slowly — the sunflower began to open.
Petal by petal. One, then another, then three at once, unfurling like fingers unclenching after a long, long hold. The flower turned until it was facing her, wide open, its centre dark and warm and smelling faintly of something like honey and dust. Lumi settled down in the long grass beside it. Her legs folded under her. The meadow grew quieter around them — the buzzing faded, the nodding sunflowers stilled, the sky above deepened from gold to the softest grey-blue. A small unicorn and an open flower, side by side, breathing the same cool evening air.
