In a peaceful corner of Suna, there is a grave always adorned with fresh flowers. Gaara passes by it often.

The first time he noticed the flowers, Gaara was six.

They were baby blue hydrangeas, bundled together with long loops of twine. The bouquet rested peacefully against a small unmarked slab of white sandstone. Gaara tugged on Yashamaru's sleeve and asked, "What is that?" Yashamaru said, "After someone dies, people who really loved them will leave nice things for them." He didn't say any more, and before Gaara could ask how he might do that for his mother, Yashamaru had herded him away from the pretty blue flowers.

The next time Gaara ventured to that corner of the village, he was seven and Yashamaru was dead. It was a breezy day, dry and irritating. Gaara looked at the yellow-orange roses on the dusty sandstone and felt hot and sharp. Almost reflexively, his sand snapped out and broke the stems. The beautiful fiery petals fell to the ground and Gaara looked at them uncomfortably.

After that, he tried to avoid the place.

Try as he might, Gaara still circled back, though he kept a distance. Blue irises, purple gladiolus, cherry blossom stems, every sort of cultivated flower imaginable had a turn on the gravestone. Despite Shukaku's cackles for solitude, and his own convictions to never let down his barrier, Gaara looked and yearned.

A week after the failed Konoha Crush, Gaara passed by the grave once again. There were a few little bundles and braids of forget-me-nots. Gaara wondered if it was true. If his own self might not be forgotten in favor of his reputation of destruction. If maybe one day he would be allowed to watch Temari and Kankuro braid flower crowns. It was too much. His tears spilled over and he ran away before anyone could spot him.

Gaara celebrated Temari's birthday for the first time he could remember. He had carefully gone and picked a few kunais and a durable and stylish fan cover for her, and he could tell Temari was pleased. Her look of surprise, delight, and some other emotion lingered in Gaara's mind as he went about his evening walk. The flowers that day were little red five-petaled things, bright and lively.

He, Kankuro, and Temari went on a walk after he confided in them his goal of becoming Kazekage. Gaara could tell they were determined for him, the way Temari strode with purpose and Kankuro stopped slouching. They walked and talked about the plan, and as they passed the sandstone Temari remarked, "Wonder where they got those white bearded irises." They stopped and admired the flowers, which had a scent of morning dew. Kankuro said, "They're called Immortality. A travelling troupe showed it to me once. They bloom for just a day."

The next day, there was a rare rain, and the flower remained in bloom.

Gaara was not immortal. A week after his death and revival, he still felt like a shell, haunted by nightmares and fatigue and random medical nin bursting in, till Temari and Kankuro told them to stop. The three siblings had their fair share of shocked crying, but it seemed none of them really had the words yet to speak of what they felt, of what happened. Gaara somehow evaded the medical nin and went outside. There were still white flower petals in the streets, a result of preemptive funeral preparations, then recalls, then a real funeral but not for the person everyone expected. Gaara didn't know what to feel about it yet.

The sandstone was covered in the white petals, as if the arranger also had too much going on to put a proper arrangement. After he got back home, Gaara ordered a few pink tulips to be put on the grave.

Gaara continued leaving flowers there. It was oddly therapeutic. Sometimes Kankuro or Temari came too, and it became a ritual among them. Gaara's favorites to place were cacti flowers.

Eventually, somehow, the council, then the other shinobi, then the villagers, caught on to the idea. More and more flowers appeared, much more than could fit on or in front of the little headstone. It became a lesser known pride of Suna, the display of love overflowing the unmarked grave, filled with forever fresh flowers.