The punch left his hand tingling. He saw her—kneeling by the garden patch, digging with her fingers. Her hands were covered in soil. She looked up at him.
He came back the next day. Then the next. He dug in the dirt, pulled weeds, watered the soil. His hands grew rough. He didn't speak to anyone.
Day after day, he returned. The dirt under his nails never quite washed away. He watched the girl tend her rows, but he stayed on the edge.
He pulled weeds he didn't know the names of. He filled a watering can and spilled half of it. Blisters formed on his palms. He ignored them.
He worked in silence, the only sound the scratch of his trowel against roots. The girl never approached him.
She walked over and pointed at a row of brown soil. 'These need sun,' she said. Theo looked at his feet. She sat down beside him and showed him how to plant the seeds.
He watched her fingers press seeds into the ground. She handed him a handful. 'Like this,' she whispered. He tried, and the dirt felt different.
A hard rain came overnight. Theo ran to the garden at dawn. Most plants were flat. But one corner—a cluster of pink and yellow—was still standing.
The girl arrived. She touched a bloom. 'You grew these?' he asked. She nodded, a smile breaking across her face.
Theo held out a small trowel. She took it. They dug together.
Other kids came over. They asked to help. The girl pointed to a patch. 'Start here,' she said.
The garden kept growing. Row after row, new shoots appeared. Theo's hands were dirty, but he smiled.