Seven days later, the rice seeds in the thermal greenhouse had stretched themselves into vibrant, lush green saplings.
Ewan stood gazing at the tiered wooden trays, his heart brimming with an indescribable joy. The tiny seedlings grew in perfectly uniform rows, their stems as slender as threads, their tips reaching up to catch the faint sunlight spilling through the cracks in the greenhouse door. That tender green hue was heartbreakingly beautiful, resembling fine embroidery needles stitched across the dark, muddy fabric of the soil.
"Get a load of this." Ewan said, lightly tapping a seedling. His fingertip could feel the fragile, fierce pulse of life surging inside: "They have actually sprouted."
Asher stood behind Ewan, leaning down to observe. He kept quiet, simply reaching out to brush his calloused index finger against a tender stalk. A speck of damp mud clung to his fingertip, carrying a pungent yet strangely fragrant earthy scent.
