Chapter 2: A Seed of Hope
The next morning, Eli woke up before the sun.
He sat up in bed, his heart still warm from the dream he couldn't forget. The image of glowing flowers and the gentle presence in the garden stayed with him, as clear as if it had been real.
For a moment, he wondered if it had only been his imagination.
Then he noticed the dirt beneath his fingernails.
Eli smiled.
He went to the garden as soon as he finished his chores. The village was quiet, wrapped in early morning mist. Birds rested on rooftops, and the air smelled faintly of dew and soil.
When Eli pushed open the old gate, it creaked softly—as if greeting him.
He walked carefully along the broken path, his eyes scanning the ground.
And then he saw it.
More green.
Tiny leaves had pushed through the soil in several places. They were small and pale, but unmistakably alive.
Eli knelt down, his breath slow and careful, afraid that even excitement might scare them away.
"They're growing," he whispered.
The garden no longer felt empty.
As the days passed, Eli returned again and again. He watered the plants gently, shielded them from harsh sunlight, and spoke to them in a quiet voice.
He didn't know if plants truly understood words.
But he believed they understood care.
Sometimes, when he rested his hand on the soil, he felt a faint warmth—almost like a heartbeat.
The garden was responding.
"Eli?"
His grandmother's voice broke the silence one afternoon.
He turned around, surprised to see her standing at the gate.
"I was wondering where you disappeared to," she said gently, her eyes moving over the garden.
Eli felt nervous. He waited for her to scold him, to tell him this place was forbidden.
But instead, she stepped closer.
"So this is where you've been," she murmured.
She knelt beside him and touched the soil.
A soft smile appeared on her face.
"This land isn't dead," she said. "It's been waiting."
Eli looked at her, eyes wide.
"You can feel it too?"
She nodded.
"Plants always wait for someone who listens."
That evening, Eli brought better tools. His grandmother gave him seeds she had been saving for years—strong ones, meant for difficult soil.
"Don't rush," she told him. "Growth takes patience."
Eli planted them carefully, one by one.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, a gentle breeze passed through the garden. Leaves rustled softly, not with loneliness this time, but with quiet gratitude.
For the first time, Eli felt certain.
He wasn't just fixing a garden.
He was becoming something new.
That night, when Eli closed his eyes, he felt it again—the calm certainty that he was exactly where he needed to be.
And deep beneath the soil, unseen roots began to spread.