It was winter, and Nell was staying at Grandma's house.
On the first morning, she looked out of the window at the garden. It was white. Everything was white. There was no green, no red, no yellow. Just snow, smooth and deep, all the way to the fence.
"Grandma," said Nell, in a small voice, "where did your garden go?"
Grandma laughed, a warm, crinkly laugh. "It is still there, my love. Put on your boots, and I will show you."
They went out into the cold, bright air. Their boots crunched. Nell's breath made little clouds.
Grandma knelt down, near a lump in the snow, and brushed it gently with her mitten. Underneath was a bit of dry brown stem.
"This is my rose bush," said Grandma. "She is asleep."
"Asleep?" said Nell.
"She works hard all summer, making flowers. Now she needs a long rest. The snow is her blanket. Underneath it, the ground is a little warmer than up here."
Nell looked at the lump. She put her ear down close, just in case, but she heard nothing.
"What about the tulips?" she asked.
"Tucked in the ground, as little bulbs. Dreaming of spring. And the strawberries, and the mint, and the old apple tree, all sleeping."
Nell stood up. The garden was very quiet. She understood now that it was not an empty quiet. It was the quiet of a room where someone is sleeping, and you are walking on tiptoe.
"Should we say goodnight?" she whispered.
"I think that would be kind," said Grandma.
So they stood together in the snow, and Nell said, very softly, "Goodnight, roses. Goodnight, tulips. Goodnight, apple tree."
A little snow slid off a branch, whump, and they both giggled.
Then they went inside for cocoa, and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon, and Nell's cheeks were pink.
That night, she lay under Grandma's heavy quilt and thought about the garden, sleeping under its snow, like her under her quilt. Somewhere far below, a tiny bulb was holding a whole spring inside it, waiting.
"See you in April," Nell whispered, and fell asleep.