On the fourth morning, a local developer arrived at the gates. "Miss Fujishita," he called out, adjusting his tie. "The offer still stands. This land is worth millions. Why waste your youth on a dead tree?"
The iron gates of the Fujishita estate hadn't been opened in forty years, but Rika Fujishita didn't need a key. She had the rhythm of the lock memorized, a secret language of clicks and scrapes passed down through three generations of gardeners. rika fujishita