Gladiolus and butterflies line drawing

The gladioli came up on the fourteenth floor the week the lift broke again, which Mr Okafor from flat 9 says is the building's way of making us walk up and admire things. I put six corms in the planter by the stairwell window in March, out of the bag you gave me, the ones with the papery skins that looked like nothing at all. Everyone on the landing thought I was mad. Nobody sows bulbs in a concrete box forty metres above the car park.

They grew anyway, tall and stiff as a sergeant's back, and then the buds came, folded up like little green fists. This morning the first one opened. Five frilled throats, pink going to cream, and a spike of them climbing past the railing as if they had somewhere to be. Two butterflies came with it, pale ones, and sat on the petals like they'd been invited to the opening.

I know what you'll say about the flowers being too showy for a place like this. You always said gladioli were for funerals and sword fights. But the lad from the flat below, Dami, stood on the landing with his school bag and didn't go down for ten minutes. He just looked. I don't think he's looked at anything that wasn't a screen since September.

Come up on Sunday if your knees allow it. The lift is still broken, so bring your stick and a bit of patience. I'll put the kettle on and show you the flowers. You can tell me whether they're worth the climb.

Love, Maddie