The next morning, the world outside Kaira's window looked the same—sunlight slipping through palm leaves, the low murmur of the village waking up, children chasing chickens across dusty paths. But inside Kaira, something had shifted.
The garden still lingered in her mind. It hadn't felt like a dream, yet it was too magical to be real. The glowing flowers. The tree with golden bark. Nuru's quiet eyes. And the tiny seed of her childhood dream—planted and blooming.
She touched her chest lightly. There, right in the center, she felt it: a warmth she hadn't known in years.
At breakfast, Grandma Dena slid a bowl of millet porridge in front of her and paused. "You seem... lighter today."
Kaira blinked. "Lighter?"
Her grandmother gave her a small smile. "Like someone who remembered the sound of her own laughter."
Kaira didn't answer. Not because she didn't want to—but because she wasn't sure how to explain that the night before, she had walked into a secret garden of dreams.
After finishing her chores, Kaira packed a small bag with bread, a bottle of water, and her sketchbook. Her feet knew the way without asking—past the yam fields, past the whispering trees, and through the gap in the broken fence.
The garden greeted her with open arms. Flowers bent gently toward her as she passed. The light shimmered between the leaves. And there, near the center, Nuru was waiting.
"You came back," he said without surprise.
"I had to," Kaira whispered. "I thought I forgot how to feel alive."
Nuru led her to a small patch of earth beside the dreaming tree. "Today, we plant again."
Kaira frowned. "But I don't know what dream to plant."
He handed her a smooth stone. "Then sit. Listen. The dreams will speak."
So she sat. And for the first time in years, she closed her eyes and just listened—to the garden, to the wind, to the stillness inside her.
A memory bubbled up—faint, but vivid. She was twelve. Her best friend, Emeka, had been crying after his father burned his songbook. "Songs are foolishness," his father had said. Kaira had promised to write them down so Emeka wouldn't forget. But she never did.
When she opened her eyes, her hands were trembling.
"I want to plant a dream for someone else," she said softly.
Nuru smiled. "Ah. The rarest kind."
She knelt and placed her palm on the soil. A seed pulsed with soft orange light, and she pressed it into the ground. Within moments, a delicate vine grew—its leaves shaped like music notes, swaying gently as if singing.
As Kaira stared at the growing plant, she realized: this wasn't just about her. The garden needed others. And others needed the garden.
When she stood to leave, Nuru placed a small pouch in her hand—inside were three seeds.
"Plant them where you think they're most needed," he said.
As she walked back to the village that evening, the wind seemed to whisper through the trees:
"Hope grows when shared."