The bus doors hissed shut behind him. Tariq stepped onto the pavement, but the noise swallowed him whole. Horns blared. Crates clattered. He gripped his canvas bag tight.
He followed a scent—green and wet, like tomato leaves. It cut through the diesel fumes. He turned a corner into a walled garden. Here, the air was quiet.
An adult woman shoved a trowel into his hand. Her palms were stained red from the earth. She pointed to a bare patch of weeds. "You can work here," she said.
She set a steaming bowl of lentil stew on the bench. Tariq wrapped his hands around the hot ceramic. The steam fogged his face. For the first time, his shoulders dropped.
He knelt into the dirt. Over days, he pulled weeds while humming. Three neighbors sat nearby, peeling oranges. One asked where he was from. Tariq used his hands to tell the story.
On the last evening, Tariq reached into his bag. He pulled out a small, crinkled paper packet. Brown and wrinkled seeds inside—the only thing he could carry.
Tariq pressed the seeds into the bare patch. The woman snorted. "Those look like dirt," she said. Others giggled and tossed pebbles. Tariq just smiled, dusted grey.
"Look!" a child yelled. The patch burst into orange and gold blossoms. Exact flowers from the town Tariq left behind. The garden hummed with sudden life.
The woman scooped Tariq’s elbow, pulling him onto the bench. Plates passed around. Flatbread and melon. The garden hummed with chatter and fat bumblebees on the new blooms.
Tariq tore bread, dipped it in stew. Orange petals caught the late light like small fires. The woman leaned in, quiet and firm: "You don't have to go anywhere." Tariq nodded.
