Ever since the day Tilly was born breathless and blue, I only grow dead flowers. I guess “grow” isn’t the right word, really. While more and more dead flowers appear in my garden every week, they don’t actually push their way from seeds through the heavy earth and burst into dry and withered blooms. Rather, I spend my days gathering abandoned brown and black bouquets to plant in my own plots of roses, lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums, and rows and rows of baby’s breath.