Roseluck was growing tomatoes.
Lily had suggested that Rose expand her garden. “Past flowers.” Roseluck had thought it an odd remark at first, but things became clear: the roses needed some friends! There simply wasn’t enough natural red in their world.
Tomatoes were red, and red came easy to Roseluck: her neighbor had been more than willing to part with their crop in exchange for a few of Rose’s own; her spare planter-building supplies made for a cheap conversion to stakes; and a tender touch assured the roses that they would be fine making room for new friends. Space was a precious commodity in the little hollow they called home, and one they’d widely explored under Roseluck’s watch. There was little room for other colors in the mass of green growth and red roses.
As the clouds gave way to morning, the flowers and vines stretched upward. The tomatoes threatened to keel over, and the roses bared their thorns. Roseluck tutted softly and trotted over to tend to the sagging vine. The tomatoes were proving to be a stubborn sort, but she could mend those traits with time; the greenhorns still had long to ripen red. They would learn that there was no hierarchy in their new home, and that no-one was to be treated the same. Every day was a cautionary tale, but mistakes were best made before they joined the roses in their parade of color.
Roseluck set her watering can down. Her left ear flicked, and she paused to listen. The town’s clock chimed for noon. The bell wavered off into the new afternoon breeze, and Roseluck left her garden to tend to her stock.
When she returned, she sat down before the patch of roses and tomatoes. They stretched lazily about in the sunshine, tempting Roseluck to join them. She smiled, shook her head, and stalked off for her shears; while the gophers had moved on, the weeds were ever eternal. She wouldn’t let them strangle her friends, even if the flowers and vines wanted to undo one another. They’d foster their mistakes in Roseluck’s garden: safe, yet ever-growing.