The Little Gnome and the Summer Roses

Last night, somewhere between dreaming and waking, I heard a faint cough coming from the garden. When I opened the window, the moonlight spilled over the rose bushes, and to my astonishment, the little gnome—who had always stood there silently—slowly lifted his head. Dew clung to the brim of his hat, and his eyes shone like tiny stars caught in stone.

“Would you paint a watercolour of me?” he asked, his voice so fragile it seemed it might dissolve into the night.

I could only nod. The gnome smiled, and at that moment it felt as though the roses bloomed more deeply under the silver light.

“I have been guarding your roses all summer,” he continued, brushing a fallen petal from his sleeve. “They fear loneliness, so I’ve stayed to keep them company.”

In that instant, I understood why the roses had never wilted, despite the harsh sun and sudden rain. They always stood proud, as if someone were secretly holding an umbrella above them, quietly pouring them water.

I promised him that, come morning, I would buy fresh paper and capture his likeness in paint.

But when the dawn arrived and I stepped into the garden, the little gnome was nothing more than clay again, still and speechless amongst the roses. And yet, I knew the dream was real—for on one fragile petal lingered the faintest trace of a fingerprint, as though someone had gently wiped away its tears.

So I began to paint—not merely a statue, but a small soul who had guarded the summer and the roses.

Photographed by Zach