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Billionaire Gave His Gardener $8,000 as a Joke — A Year Later, He Couldn't Believe His Eyes

Billionaire Gave His Gardener $8,000 as a Joke — A Year Later, He Couldn't Believe His Eyes

Chapter 16

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The man hesitated. "It means we still don't know."Richard closed his eyes. That answer had become familiar—too familiar.His mother had died nearly ten years earlier. The memorial garden was one of the few things he had preserved exactly as she left it. The roses mattered more than most people realized: his mother used to spend hours among them reading books, drinking tea, watching birds move through the hedges. The flowers weren't just plants; they were memories. And memories had become harder to protect than money.The consultant finally gathered his papers. "We can continue monitoring—""No." The word came sharply. The man stopped. Richard looked back toward the roses. "Thank you for your time."The consultant understood the dismissal. Ten minutes later, his truck disappeared down the driveway.Richard remained alone. For a long while, he simply stared at the garden. Then he noticed movement nearby: Elijah Brooks, the old gardener, was trimming hedges along the northern wall, working quietly as always.Richard watched him for a moment, then looked back at the roses. A strange thought crossed his mind—not because he believed Elijah had the answer, but because Elijah had been there longer than anyone else. Nearly every day, year after year: watching, learning, observing.Still, Richard dismissed the idea immediately. If professional horticultural consultants couldn't solve the problem, how could a gardener? The thought vanished as quickly as it appeared; by lunchtime, he had forgotten it.Elijah hadn't. Not entirely. He had noticed the consultant's truck, the soil samples, the conversations. Most importantly, he had noticed the roses for months now, maybe longer. He knew something was wrong—not because of laboratory reports, not because of expensive equipment, but because he had watched those roses every day for years. Plants spoke; most people simply didn't know how to listen.The symptoms were subtle: the leaves, the growth pattern, the color variation, the root stress. He recognized them. But experience had taught him something else: unrequested advice from invisible people was rarely welcome. So he stayed silent.That evening, after work, he drove to the nursery. The sun hung low over the hills beyond the property. Inside the greenhouse, Marcus was watering trays of young plants. Tyler was there, too; the boy had become a regular volunteer, practically living at the community garden whenever school wasn't in session.Marcus waved. "You're late.""Busy day."Elijah set down his bag, then walked directly toward a row of carefully protected cuttings near the rear wall. Marcus followed."You've been checking those every day.""I know."The teenager looked closer. Most of the cuttings appeared ordinary, except for one group: their leaves carried a slightly different shape, a unique texture, a subtle elegance. Marcus pointed. "The white roses?"Elijah nodded. The memory from the newspaper clipping still lingered: Whitmore White, one of the rarest cultivated roses he had ever encountered. Years ago, before Grace became sick, he had acquired several cuttings through a retired grower in Northern California. At the time, he saved them because Grace loved unusual flowers; he never imagined they might matter again. Yet, here they were: alive, growing, waiting.Tyler stepped closer. "My grandma came by today.""How's she doing?"
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Billionaire Gave His Gardener $8,000 as a Joke — A Year Later, He Couldn't Believe His Eyes

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