That evening, Shira waits for darkness, for her mother to tell their nightly story about the little girl in the silent flower garden. But her mother tells a different story: a story of how the little girl goes to a new garden where she can make noise, can laugh and shout, can fill up the space with her whole self rather than live scrunched like a flower in a too-small pot.

Shira scooches out of her mother’s grasp. Amid the fake bright notes in her mother’s voice she hears an underlying chord: heartbreak.

She stares hard at her mother, whose forced smile does not match her anguished eyes. Something is wrong. Shira wishes for the little girl in the story to compose perfect harmonies that the bird will sing—

“I need you to go to a safer place, Shira; just for a while,” her mother says.

“No! Please! I won’t make noise, not ever again. I’m sorry, Mamusia.”

Her mother reaches for her hand but squeezes it too tight. Shira swallows back tears and pulls her hand away, covering herself over with hay.

Why did I ever have to chirp like that? Shira promises herself to be silent and still, to do what her mother wants of her: to disappear.

She lies unmoving, like a stone. Music storms inside her in movements dark and gloomy, but she shows no outward signs: no tapping fingers, no bobbing feet. She doesn’t scratch her itches. She holds back every sneeze. She doesn’t even whisper to her little bird, who is viciously pecking at his left foot, trying to make himself like the other, outside birds.

Eventually she pleads, using her quietest voice, “Tell our story, Mama. Does the bird bring seeds from the poppy fields?”

Her mama’s face looks sunken and tired; new lines etch her forehead. She seems not to have heard Shira’s question. When she finally speaks, she tells the story of how, with the daisies from their garden, the little girl and her mother weave a magical flower chain that can expand to any length, connecting them.

“However far apart they wander, they can always feel each other if they tug on the chain.”

“But they are always together!”

Tears spring to Shira’s eyes. She continues the protest in her mind: The mama and her little girl could never really be connected by a chain of daisies! It would break apart; it would tangle and they would trip. She should know this—the mama and her girl have to stay together! But Shira does not dare protest aloud. Not when quiet might fix things.

Her mother doesn’t continue with the story, and Shira doesn’t ask her to. Silently, Shira shapes bits of hay into new nests. Her bird hops past these and nestles low in the cup of her hands.

Eventually Shira settles into the hay to sleep, but her mother is fidgety. Her breath sounds heavy and ragged.