By tea time the rose by the gate had gone still, except for a faint tick of wings. The ladybugs were matching their spots to a page in the gardener's notebook, one red circle at a time. When every speck sat where it belonged, the petal nodded them toward the next bud, and only once.
We asked at the corner kiosk. A woman with a paper cone of seeds said it was not a test so much as a courtesy. If a ladybug hurried, the page waited. A man in line claimed the pencil never wrote a number, only a tiny tick beside each name.
The gardener, found later beside the watering can, was happy to explain. I do not count them, he said. They count themselves. I only hold the book so the petal knows when it may nod.
The next afternoon the neighboring bud was already open. Two ladybugs came back to the first flower, tapped the notebook once more, and left a leaf as a thank-you.