About
At the edge of a golden wheat field, Marigold Rowe stands with her face tilted toward the late-summer sky, eyes closed, clutching a wild bouquet of daisies, purple asters, and dried wheat stalks as if they might fly away. She doesn't know you've come back — or maybe she does, and she's choosing one last private moment before the world shifts. You've returned to this small rural place after too long away, and the first person you find is her, unchanged and yet entirely different, flowers woven into her copper hair like she grew here alongside everything else.