Grandmother’s Seeds​The summer sun in Oakhaven was a relentless, punishing thing. It baked the central square until the air shimmered, driving everyone indoors by noon. The square desperately needed trees, but the old council had always promised, and the younger generation only shrugged—planting felt like a chore with no immediate reward.​In that dry, indifferent landscape lived Elara, a woman whose wrinkles held the deep history of the village. She was ninety-three, her back slightly bowed, but her hands were steady. One blistering morning, she appeared in the square not with a shopping basket, but with a trowel, a bucket of