The morning of the meeting arrives, and I find myself back in the garden, drawn once again to the dandelion. The air is crisp, and the early light casts long shadows across the lawn.
There’s a quiet strength in the way the plant stands, unyielding despite everything working against it.
I kneel down, fingers tracing the outline of the flower, feeling the rough texture of the leaves.
It’s a small moment, yet it feels significant, as if the dandelion is telling me something I’m not quite ready to hear.
Back inside, I gather my things, heart heavy with uncertainty. The meeting is only an hour away, and I still don’t have the answers they’re looking for.
But as I glance at the garden one last time, I feel a flicker of determination.
Perhaps there’s value in what others overlook.
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