Kaira stood at the edge of the village square, clutching the pouch of glowing seeds. The garden had given her a gift—but it also came with a quiet responsibility. She looked around, wondering: Where is hope most needed?
Her eyes settled on a familiar figure—Mama Ebele, the village's once-celebrated storyteller. Once known for her booming laughter and tales that could make even the elders cry, Mama Ebele had fallen silent ever since her only son left the village and never returned.
Now she sat by her doorstep each day, eyes far away, hands empty.
Kaira approached slowly.
"Mama Ebele?" she said softly.
The old woman looked up, startled. "Kaira? I haven't seen you around in a while."
"I was... lost," Kaira admitted. "But I found something."
Mama Ebele raised an eyebrow. "What did you find, child?"
Kaira took out one of the seeds—small and pale gold, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. She knelt down and gently placed it in the patch of earth beside the elder's wooden stool.
"It's a seed," she said. "But not just any kind. It holds something forgotten."
Before Mama Ebele could respond, the soil shifted. A gentle sprout rose, curling into a blossom shaped like a tiny scroll. As it opened, it released a soft hum—the sound of a voice telling stories in rhythm and rhyme.
Mama Ebele gasped. "That's... my story about the boy who wrestled the moon!"
Tears glistened in her eyes as she reached toward the flower, then paused. "How is this possible?"
Kaira smiled. "Some dreams never die. They only sleep."
The old woman stared at her for a long moment, then let out a breath that trembled like wind through dry leaves. "Thank you."
As Kaira left, the villagers began to notice something strange. A glow near Mama Ebele's house. A flower shaped like a scroll. And the return of something many hadn't heard in years: her voice, rich and full, weaving stories once again.
That evening, Kaira sat by her window and held the pouch close. Two seeds left.
She thought of Emeka, her old friend. She hadn't seen him in years, but what if he was still out there—somewhere—waiting for a reason to believe again?
And what about all the others in Anuli, quietly aching in silence?
The garden had given her more than magic. It had given her purpose.
In the darkness of her room, Kaira whispered, "Tomorrow, I plant again."
And outside, the wind carried the so
ft promise of blooming things yet to come.