The garden was divided into two beds by an old brass scale her grandfather had set deep into the soil. On the right stretched a broad patch where lavender, chamomile, sweet peas, and wild herbs grew together. On the left rested a single ceramic pot upon the opposite pan of the scale.

Each morning, Maya carried only one small watering can.

At first, she divided its contents evenly. Before long, however, the solitary seed in the left pot unfurled a delicate stem unlike anything she had ever seen. It drew her in with quiet certainty. Almost without noticing, she began pouring three-quarters of her water into the pot.

Once, while filling the watering can, she noticed the lavender bowing beneath the summer heat. She lingered for a moment, then looked back at the scarlet shoot.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

Tomorrow never came.

Soon every drop belonged to the flower.

She angled mirrors to catch the morning sun and warm its soil. At night, she stood watch against the cold, wrapping her own wool cloak around its tender stem while she shivered beneath the stars.

The scarlet flower flourished.

Still, it was never enough.

Its thirst seemed to deepen with every passing day. To keep its petals radiant, Maya emptied the water meant for the other beds. At last, she poured away the water meant for her own cup.

The flower drank her dry.

It rose tall and luminous, dazzling to anyone who looked upon it. Yet it never bent toward her in warmth or gratitude. Each morning, it simply lifted its face to the light, admiring its reflection in the dew.

Across the garden, the other bed fell silent.

The lavender browned. The chamomile curled into brittle threads. Sweet peas failed to bloom. Wild herbs disappeared beneath cracked earth.

Maya scarcely noticed.

The brass scale leaned farther and farther to the left, burdened by the weight of the flourishing flower.

This is enough, she told herself.

This bloom is worth everything.

One afternoon, a traveler stopped at the garden gate.

The stranger offered no years of care, no sleepless nights, no quiet devotion—only a gleaming golden pot and the promise of a wider road.

To Maya’s horror, the scarlet flower leaned toward the outstretched hand as naturally as it once turned toward the morning sun.

It did not resist as its roots were gently loosened from the rich soil she had tended for years. Lifted free, it turned its radiant face toward the open sky, welcoming the journey ahead without once looking back at the hollow it left behind.

Maya remained standing beside the empty pot, unable to move.

Everything she had poured into the flower now belonged to someone else.

At last, her gaze drifted across the rest of the garden.

Her knees sank into dry, fractured earth.

The lavender dissolved beneath her fingertips. The chamomile had become gray dust. Empty stems stood where blossoms should have been. The silence was so complete she could hear only the wind passing through what had once been alive.

She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering the cloak she had long ago given away.

Days slipped into weeks.

The watering can remained untouched beside the well. Maya sat beside the lopsided brass scale, saying nothing, watching shadows move slowly across the barren beds.

Then, on an ordinary morning, something caught the light.

In the far corner of the neglected bed, beneath a blanket of gray leaves, a tiny green shoot had pierced the hardened earth. At its tip rested a single blue petal, trembling in the breeze.

A few inches away, another shoot was pushing upward.

They were small—far humbler than the scarlet flower had ever been—and they bore the scars of the long drought. Yet their roots had endured, waiting patiently beneath the earth for the day she might return.

For a long while, Maya simply watched.

Then she rose.

She crossed the garden and lifted the dusty watering can from beside the well.

As she returned, she paused beside the old brass scale.

For years, one side had borne the weight of a single flower.

Now, the watering can rested lightly in her hand, and the balance quivered.

Not much.

Just enough.

Maya knelt beside the waiting shoots and let the first stream of water soak into the thirsty earth.

The soil drank quietly.

So did something within her.

A breeze stirred through the garden. The lone blue petal loosened from its stem and drifted across the brass scale before settling gently on the empty pan.

For the first time in years, the balance rested almost level.

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