Meldi keeps watch from the red-tiled corner, two rooftops down from the bakery.
She likes the view: the washing lines, the chimneys, the baskets of plums left to soften in the sun.
Her bloom’s bright red – makes the birds think she’s fruit. She doesn’t mind. They visit, perch, whisper things.
Yesterday, one brought a tomato seed and dropped it straight into her rim.
Today, there’s a sprout. Meldi’s not sure if it’s a compliment or a prank.
Either way, she waters it.
Florendelle’s roofs have seen stranger things.