Chapter 2

The air around us seemed to freeze.

The groundskeepers looked at each other in shock. The woman in the sun hat stopped laughing, nudging the coworker beside her while muttering under her breath.

I knew what Marcus was thinking.

A hundred-and-twenty-year-old heirloom tea tree sentenced to death, beyond the salvation of even the chief director—what business did a rookie like me have thinking I could save it?

Too bad he miscalculated one crucial thing.

I could hear the tree speak.

"Deal," I said.

My voice sounded steadier than I expected.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, a barely perceptible sneer tugging at his lips. He waved his hand dismissively at the crew.

"Alright, show's over, back to work. Let's see what our star graduate can do."

As the crowd dispersed, a few threw glances over their shoulders.

Pity, schadenfreude, sheer morbid curiosity.

Not a single person believed I had a chance.

I squatted down and pressed my palm against the rough, flaking bark at the base of the trunk.

"Sir, be real with me. What's going on with you?"

The tree fell silent for two beats. Then, a long, weary sigh filled my mind.

*"Ah, kiddo... you're the first one to ask me how I'm actually doing."*

*"Last fall, I squeezed out over four hundred pounds of tea seed pods. I drained my reserves down to the last drop. Once winter set in, I just wanted to rest. I pulled all my moisture and nutrients down into my roots and shed my leaves."*

*"Who knew these idiots would see bare branches and declare me dead! They started pumping me full of harsh chemicals and digging around my root ball, torturing the hell out of me!"*

"What do you need right now?" I asked mentally.

*"Stop them from messing with me! Flush out all that toxic crap they poured into my dirt, give me some clean organic compost, and let me catch my breath! Three months. Give me three months tops, and I promise you new green shoots."*

Three months.

Marcus had given me seven days.

Next week, state botanical inspectors and local government officials were scheduled for a high-profile inspection tour. This heritage tea tree was the crown jewel of the pavilion; leaving a dead centerpiece on display looked terrible on their record.

In seven days, it either sprouted or got turned into firewood.

"Three months is too long," I whispered. "Can you speed it up?"

*"Speed it up?! What do you think I am, a stalk of spring onions?!"*

The tree grumbled testily. *"Listen here, girl, plants have natural rules! Nagging won't make the sun rise faster!"*

"Let me help you supercharge your recovery, but you have to work with me."

*"Fine, fine, do your thing. Old man's betting on you once."*

For the next three days, I practically moved into the nursery.

By day, I did my standard shifts with the crew, sprinting over to the tree whenever I caught a break.

By night, I stayed until eleven under the harsh yellow work lights, reviewing soil test charts and mixing organic nutrient broths.

I completely leached out the industrial fungicides and synthetic rooting hormones Marcus's crew had previously dumped into the soil.

Those chemical cocktails hadn't done jack; instead, they had scorched the soil's natural microbiome. It was like taking a bedridden patient and soaking them in industrial bleach for three days straight.

Then, I blended a fresh custom substrate of aged leaf mold, pine needles, and bone meal, trenching it gently around the drip line of the outer root system.

Finally, I wrapped the main trunk in moist sphagnum moss to seal in humidity and protect the cambium.

On paper, these were solid, orthodox horticultural techniques. Any college graduate could pitch them.

Yet only I knew what the tea tree truly craved.

Quiet.

*"Keep those morons away from my roots!"* the tree grumbled at least eight hundred times a day. *"That kid with the glasses came over yesterday and poked my bark again. It tickled like hell!"*