That day you met her, she was sitting cross legged on the grass, a small woven basket filled to the brim with flowers, in front of her. Her fingers, painted a shining orange, were swiftly threading daises together.

In and out the daises twisted.

They were almost like her life line. Memories and thoughts, all threaded together, but slowly dying. Her nail polish was never chipped, always painted perfectly and evenly.

"What are you doing?" you ask, standing above her.

She doesn't pause her threading, but her eyes slowly lift to meet yours. "Daisy chains."

You frown, watching as the chain begins to grow. "Why?"

This time her fingers do pause, though her eyes don't meet yours. "Why not?"

You stand before, and she keeps creating the chains, piling them into her basket when she's finished.

"What now?" you ask.

She only smiles at you, lifting herself up and gripping the basket.

Her long, wispy blonde hair whips across her face but she makes no attempt to brush it away. Her eyes, a pure green, stand out from her pale skin, and you struggle to decipher the many emotions buried within.

But she turns away, leaving you standing on the grass, watching her leave.

You see her the next day, still on the grass, knitting the daisies together again. There's a new bunch this time, and yesterdays chains were nowhere to be seen. You watch from a few feet away, still confused.

"Why do you do it?" you ask her.

She doesn't acknowledge your presence, instead pulls more daisies towards her and continues threading.

You repeat the question.

This time her slender fingers stop, and her shoulders lift in a small shrug. "Do I need a reason?"

You don't answer, instead seating yourself across from her.

"Can I help?" you ask softly, offering a shy smile.

Her hands freeze and she stares up at you, disbelief evident in her eyes, though her face stays smooth. "Why?"

"Why not?" you mimic, laughing lightly to yourself.

She continues to stare at you, before sliding the basket towards you, looking to her hands again.

You sit with her until the sun has moved right across the flawless, pale blue sky. There are no words spoken, just an easy silence which you fight not to break.

Finally the flow of flowers stop, and she scoops all the poorly made chains you created into the basket.

She doesn't say anything to you, just gives you a smile, the gratitude shining in those vibrant eyes.

You watch her leave again, hair flying in the wind as she makes her way down the path.

You return to the same patch of grass the next day, but she isn't there. Nor the next in case, you pass the area each day, hoping to see that long hair and those swift fingers. But she's never there.

Then finally, several days later, you see her.

Surprised and intrigued, you head towards her but halt when you see her shoulders shaking.

"Hi," you call out quietly, still paused a few feet away.

You watch her hands freeze, and lift to her face. Moments later, they return to forming the chains.

You approach slowly, folding your legs in front of her, and searching her face.

She refuses to look at you, but you see the slight trails her salty tears left down her face. Her hands are shaking as she tries to form weak chains.

Finally, she throws them down in annoyance and sighs. She leans backwards to stretch, and its then that you realise just how thin she is. Her shoulders are frail and slim, the bones protruding in a gruesome way.

Then you notice the bruises lining her forearms, in the suspicious form of a handprint, and the purple tinge marring her cheekbone.

You bite your lip, staring at the bluish marks covering her body. You feel her eyes on you, and raise yours to meet them, but she quickly glances away, slowly sliding the basket towards you.

"Where were you?" you blurt out, staring at the daisy balanced on your fingertips.

She hesitates to answer, though her fingers don't pause their careful threading.

"Busy," she manages to say, though you can tell she's lying by the way her voice cracks.

But you don't question it, instead pulling more limp daisies towards you. After some time, you sit back, admiring the chains lying before you.

"I'm improving, don't you think?" you joke.

Her eyes flit over your work, and she smiles as she places them carefully into the basket. You stand up tall, stretching out and waiting for her to rise. There aren't as many flowers as usual this time.

She looks at you, and you feel a strange, wrenching guilt as you see the sadness, loneliness and misery reflecting in those green pools. She bites her lip, tearing her eyes from yours and looks to the ground.

"Thank you," she whispers eventually, gripping the basket handle with white knuckles. You don't answer, unsure of what to say, so she turns away from you, fleeing down the path.

And that's when you realise.

Her normally impeccable nails are chipped and broken, the orange faded and dull.

She doesn't come back again.

You never even got her name.