that night, Aman couldn't sleep. The sapling sat in a clay pot beside his bed, its tiny leaves glowing faintly in the dark like fireflies caught in stillness. The letter from his grandfather kept whispering through his mind: "Some are meant for destiny."
He consulted the journal again, flipping past grafting diagrams and pressed mango petals until he found a sketch of a tree with roots shaped like a constellation. Under it was a line in faded ink:
"Where constellations meet the soil, plant with your heart open."
So, Aman waited for a cloudless night.
On the third night, he carried the sapling deep into the orchard where the stars above mirrored the trees below. There, guided by intuition more than logic, he planted it in a ring of stones etched with symbols from the journal. As the last bit of soil fell over the roots, a sudden breeze stirred the grove—and every mango tree bowed gently in one direction, as if acknowledging the newcomer.
Over the coming weeks, strange things began to happen. Tourists who visited the grove claimed to feel healed—headaches eased, old regrets lifted. Bees swarmed only around the new tree, humming a melodic rhythm. And one morning, when Aman touched its bark, he saw flashes—his grandfather as a boy, a distant ancestor teaching under a neem tree, a vision of himself standing before a field of golden trees that hadn't been planted yet.
The Suryansh had awakened something deeper than flavor or fame. It had unlocked memory, magic, and a responsibility far older than Aman had imagined.
And in the distance, far beyond the grove, someone else had notice