Months passed, and the Suryansh trees grew taller than the others, their leaves shimmering with an emerald hue tinged in gold. Aman tended them quietly, shielding them from gossiping neighbors and curious journalists. These mangoes weren't just rare—they felt sacred.
Then came a whisper on the wind.
One morning, Aman awoke to find a note tied to his garden gate. The paper was coarse, folded thrice, and sealed with wax bearing his grandfather's initials. It read:
"When the first Suryansh fruit blushes gold, follow the scent to the heart of the grove. Bring no tools. Only trust."
Baffled but compelled, Aman waited. On the seventh dawn of a particularly warm May, he found the first mango—plump, golden, glowing softly in the rising light. With the fruit cradled in his palms, he walked deeper into the orchard than he'd ever dared.
At the grove's center, where sunlight barely touched the ground, the air shimmered. A strange tree stood there, bark as pale as bone, heavy with blossoms shaped like tiny suns. As Aman approached, petals began to fall silently, carpeting the soil. The moment he held out the Suryansh mango, a low hum vibrated through the roots beneath his feet.
From the base of the tree, a hollow opened, revealing another tin box—older, heavier, locked by time. Inside, wrapped in silk, was a letter from his grandfather… and a single, perfect sapling.
The letter said only this:
"Not every seed