The morning sun painted golden trails across the rooftops of Anuli, but Kaira's heart was already burning with purpose. She tucked the pouch of seeds carefully into her bag, tied her scarf, and set off—not toward the garden this time, but toward the riverbank, where the forgotten boys of the village often gathered.
They were the ones people whispered about—those who had dropped out of school, whose fathers drank too much, whose names were said with sighs rather than smiles.
Among them was Jude, the boy with sharp eyes and a quiet rage. Kaira remembered him from her childhood—always sketching animals in the dirt with a stick, always dreaming of becoming an artist. But the weight of reality had crushed that dream years ago.
As she approached, the boys looked up, curious. Jude squinted. "Kaira? You lost?"
She smiled. "No. I came to find someone."
The boys exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or listen. Kaira walked past them and crouched by a small patch of ground near the river, where the soil was soft and waiting. She pulled out a seed—this one silver, like moonlight caught in crystal.
"I want to show you something," she said.
With gentle hands, she pressed the seed into the earth.
At first, nothing happened.
Then—a shiver. A stir beneath the soil. And slowly, a plant emerged, but not a flower this time. It was a canvas—a living canvas, rippling with soft light, slowly painting itself with Jude's old sketches. Lions. Birds. Even a picture of the river, just as it looked now.
The boys gasped.
Jude dropped his stick. "That's... that's my drawing."
Kaira stood. "Dreams don't die. They wait. Sometimes, all they need is a little light."
Silence hung heavy, then Jude whispered, "I haven't drawn in years."
"Maybe it's time to start again," Kaira said, placing a pencil in his hand. "The village needs to see what you see."
As she walked away, the boys didn't mock or jeer. Instead, they gathered around Jude, watching as he knelt beside the canvas and began to draw—not in dirt, but in light.
That evening, Kaira returned home and looked into the pouch.
One seed left.
One chance to restore something precious.
As the sun set, she sat under the moon and whispered, "Where are you now, Emeka?"
And in the distance, the wind stirred the trees—sof
t, searching, like a voice calling back.