There’s no road to the field, nor any trail to follow. You just… get there.

Maybe you wandered too far past the diner. Maybe the fog that morning refused to lift, and you walked where you shouldn’t have. However it happens, one moment you’re pushing through the last of the brush, and the next—you’re there.

It’s not on any map, either, though people have been finding it for as long as anyone remembers. Children find it chasing dragonflies. Artists lose their way and arrive paint-stained and wide-eyed. The kind of folks who forget about time seem to end up here more than most.

The daisies, waiting.

They stand in quiet, patient order—rows and clusters that seem too neat for the wild, yet too alive for a gardener’s hand. White petals bright as milk, golden centers warm as the late-afternoon sun. No weeds, no other blooms, not even a bee or butterfly in sight. Just daisies, as far as the eye can wander.

It’s said that when you take your first step into the field, they turn toward you. Not much—just enough to let you know you’ve been noticed. No, it’s not the wind. There is no wind in the meadow.

The air smells faintly sweet—part sun-warmed paper and part something you can’t quite name but know you’ve smelled before in a happier time. The light is gentle, golden, as if the sky has kept it aside just for this place. And the quiet… it isn’t silence at all, but a soft song without sheet music. Something you can feel more than hear.

No one stays long. The meadow is not a place for keeping. It is for remembering. Or maybe forgetting. Whichever you need most.

There are stories, of course. Folks who carried sorrow into the field and walked out lighter. A woman who swore she heard her grandmother’s lullaby. A man who saw himself as a boy, barefoot and laughing, chasing a kite long vanished from the world.

Ask the oldest among us, and they’ll only smile, maybe nod once, and say, “Oh, there, where the daisies do grow? That place is waiting for you.”