The Withered Flower and the Lasting Fragrance
The traveler, who once laughed at the gardener for being “inefficient,” returned to “Pz’s Garden” with worn-out shoes. His bag was filled with empty bottles of the “Magic Powder” he had bought for a fortune.
“Tell me, Gardener,” the traveler said, collapsing onto the ground. “Why did the flowers that bloomed so quickly wither overnight? I followed the instructions for the fertilizer and water perfectly.”
The gardener answered while gently covering a tiny, newly sprouted seedling with soil. “Magic powder commands a flower to ‘bloom.’ But the most important part of gardening isn’t making it bloom—it’s creating soil where the roots want to grow.”
The traveler looked puzzled. “Isn’t all soil the same?”
“No. Soil holds the memory of past rains, winds, and the time poured into it. Flowers forced to bloom quickly focus only on outward brilliance and forget to converse with the earth. That is why they fall at the slightest breeze.”
The gardener squinted affectionately at Tetsu, his dog curling up nearby, and Peri, his cat chasing butterflies. “Shortcuts make you skip the scenery. But if you walk slowly, you notice the small stones beneath your feet and the changing scent of the wind. Each of those realizations is, in fact, the best nourishment.”
The traveler accepted a cup of warm coffee offered by the gardener. Its aroma was filled with a deep, gentle peace that no magic powder could ever replicate.
“Can I try touching the soil starting tomorrow?” At the traveler’s words, the gardener gave a quiet nod.
