Kaira lay awake that night, the final seed resting on her open palm. It glowed with a soft warmth—not urgent, but patient, as if it understood the weight it carried.
Emeka.
She hadn't spoken his name in years. They had been inseparable as children—laughing, dreaming, making up songs about birds and rain and the sky. But when his father left and his mother fell ill, Emeka changed. He stopped singing. Stopped laughing. And one day, he left without a word.
Now, holding the final seed, Kaira felt a tug deeper than memory. It was the ache of unfinished promises.
She rose before dawn, following nothing but instinct and the whisper of the wind. Past the yam fields, past the stream, and up the old northern trail—Emeka's favorite thinking place.
There, sitting by a rock with a worn guitar slung across his back, was Emeka.
He was older, taller, and the light in his eyes had dimmed. But it was him.
"Emeka," Kaira said, her voice barely above a breath.
He turned slowly. Surprise flickered in his gaze, then softened into something unspoken. "Kaira."
They stood in silence, the weight of years and distance between them. Finally, she stepped forward and held out the seed.
"I have something for you."
He looked down. "What is it?"
"A second chance. For both of us."
Kaira knelt and pressed the seed into the earth at his feet. The wind stilled. The forest hushed. And then, from the soil, a tree began to grow—fast and tall, its bark lined with musical notes, its branches humming softly.
Hanging from the tree were glowing leaves shaped like lyrics—their lyrics. Songs they once sang together.
Emeka dropped to his knees, eyes wide. He touched one of the leaves and a melody floated through the air—a song he had written but never finished. His voice cracked. "I thought I lost this part of me."
"You didn't," Kaira whispered. "It was just waiting for you to come back."
Tears welled in his eyes, and in that moment, the years of silence melted. He strummed his guitar—hesitantly at first, then stronger. A new song filled the air, woven with hope and healing.
Kaira joined in, their voices rising like dawn.
When the music faded, Emeka looked at her and smiled—the kind of smile that holds both sorrow and strength.
"I want to help you," he said. "Whatever you're doing... planting dreams. I want in."
Kaira reached into her bag, then paused. The pouch was empty.
But somehow, her heart felt full.
"You already are," she said.
Together, they walked back toward the village—not as strangers, but as dreamers reunited. And behind them, the tree of songs shimmered in the wind, its branches swaying with a promise:
Some dreams bloom late—but they bloom forever.