The valley floor stretches under a wide, white sky. No shade. No water. Just red dust and cracked earth, as far as the eye can see.
Tariq kneels in the cracked dirt. He presses a tiny seed into the dry earth, pats it flat, then flat again. The sun beats on his bare arms.
Dust sticks to his lips. He presses his palms into the dry soil and thinks, "Grow." Flat. Flat again. One more time.
Every morning, Tariq tips his clay pot over the sprout. The other children stomp past, kicking red dust. He pours. And pours.
"That's a stick, Tariq!" they shout. He wipes grit from his tongue, keeps pouring. The sprout stays the same size. Weeks pass.
The valley floor glows white-hot. The little sprout has curled up, dry and still, tucked in a crack between two flat stones.
Tariq drags his big jug across the flat ground. Splash, splash, splash. He pours until his arms shake.
One green leaf pops open. Wobbly. New. The nearest child stops stomping and squints. "It's... alive?"
Tariq kicks off his sandals and scrambles up the lowest branch. The huge oak stretches over the whole village square. The leaves rattle like dry coins.
He hops down into the cool shadow. Bare feet press into packed earth. The tree creaks—creak, creak—and everyone below laughs.