"Gentle," Shuyin laughed, catching the girl's wrists and guiding her movements with patient instruction. "Roots need space to breathe. They can't establish properly if we pack the soil too tightly."
Together, the three of them worked the earth around the base, patting and shaping until the tree stood secure. When finished, the small peach tree stood slightly crooked, its leaves trembling in the breeze, imperfect and alive and beautiful in ways that manufactured perfection could never achieve.
Shuyin stepped back to observe their work. For a brief second, reality seemed to overlap with memory. She could almost see another version of this garden, her mother sitting beneath spring blossoms years ago, sunlight falling through pink petals, laughter carried on warm air scented with growth and possibility. The vision passed quickly, fading like morning mist, but it left warmth behind instead of pain. Hope instead of loss.
