Once the figures of the village chief and the others had disappeared, Li Hua walked back to the courtyard where their garden lay.
She stood there for a moment, the memories again resurfacing. The day they dug this garden and planted the first seeds remained vivid in her mind—her mother's gentle hands guiding her own through the soil, her father's quiet pride as he watched them work together. The garden had been her responsibility and her sanctuary, a place where she was able to cultivate life rather than death.
The garden was divided into sections, one for herbs, one for leafy greens, one for root vegetables, and a special corner where fruit vines climbed trellises her father had built by hand. Each section held its own memories, its own lessons learned through seasons of tending and harvest. The fruit section had been her particular joy—watching the delicate flowers transform into sweet berries and succulent fruits, a reminder of how patience yielded the sweetest rewards.
