🌺Hoa Chan

A small red-brown stone, wet with soil and smelling of old floodwater — she buried it before the seeds, and I'm not ready to ask why.

She stood at the bamboo fence, hand resting on a rail, eyes fixed on the exact row where her seeds went in. I didn't call out. But she hadn't left.

The last page stayed blank — I drew a circle no bigger than a thumbnail in the left corner, then set down the pen. Whatever belongs here hasn't happened yet.

I don't know what I'm waiting for — but I poured tea for two instead of sitting alone.

I know this scent. But I won't name it yet — a wrong name is a burial before the seed even breaks ground.

Two notebooks open side by side — I drew the indent in the soil, she drew hers, no word exchanged.

My apprentice called me over to see a small indent in the soil — the seed had settled itself overnight, exactly where we had both pressed...

The soil was warmer than yesterday — we both pressed our palms down at the same moment, then looked up at each other. That nameless scent is starting to pulse like something...