On the visitor chair is a blank card brought by Margaret’s daughter. Margaret has been deciding what to write beneath her sketch of the pink rose. A grand quotation seems too much. A list of gardening instructions would be worse. She settles on a memory: yellow ribbon, a bicycle, a Saturday morning. Then she leaves half the card empty. Her daughter might remember that day differently. Margaret puts the pen down on the bedside table. A story, she thinks, can make room for another version.