Two seeds land on a windowsill: one hoards, one risks. Only one learns the language of rain.
**Hook:** Wind scattered a handful of seeds. Two landed on a cracked windowsill. “Bad soil,” grumbled one, curling tight. “Wrong address.” The other wriggled a root into the crack like a key.
**Rise:** Days passed. The cautious seed measured shadows and cataloged pigeons and waited for a perfect forecast. The brave seed drank the dew that collected in the crack, listened to ants gossip about the underground, and pushed a green question mark into the air. A girl found it, named it “Maybe,” and watered carefully with the same spoon she used for sugar. “You’ll make flowers,” she promised. “Or shade.” Maybe didn’t know which; it grew toward both.
The hoarder seed softened, then soured, then slept a long sleep called never. Maybe learned the windowsill’s seasons: hot noon, kind evening, loud rain. It sent one tiny root into the wall and felt the building’s heart—warm pipes, humming wires, the city’s pulse wrapped in brick.
**Finish:** Months later, a single bloom cupped the sky in a color the block had forgotten. Passersby lifted phones, eyes, then spirits. The girl tucked a sign next to the pot: “Begin where you are.” **Moral:** Opportunity is rarely perfect; growth often is.
