The Seed Library – Part 2: Germination

In March, one of the old seeds germinated.

Ximena rang Valeria at six in the morning, and Valeria was at the library by seven, in a coat over her pyjamas, hair wild. They stood together at the little growing bench beneath the grow-lamp, looking down at a single curl of green no bigger than a comma, pushing out of the dark soil.

"It came back," whispered Valeria.

"It was waiting."

"Three hundred years."

"It only needed someone to listen."

They both leaned over the tray, shoulder to shoulder, watching it breathe. Warm light fell over the seedling and over Ximena's face. In the weeks since the first delivery, Valeria had come back every few days with another box, another excuse, another story, and Ximena had always brought rice and beans for two.

"Can I ask you something?" said Valeria.

"Yes."

"Will you come with me to the valley? In June, when I collect again? I want you to see where it started."

Ximena's eyes went bright. "I would love to."

"There is no road. We walk for two days."

"Then I'll bring a very large lunch."

Valeria laughed, and her voice shook. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Ximena. "And if you say stop, you must catalogue the whole of shelf nine."

"There are eleven thousand packets."

"I know."

She kissed her, softly, in the glow of the grow-lamp. Ximena's glasses slid; she pushed them up with a laugh and kissed her back, her cardigan soft under Valeria's hands. The kiss tasted of coffee and green things. The seedling quivered between them as if it, too, were listening.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ximena.

"Green," said Valeria. "Very green."

In June, they walked to the valley together. The family's old fields were still there, wild and gold. They planted the first seed back in the ground.

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