Bernard Holloway stood in the center of the town square, boots planted in frozen dirt, imagining a row of perfect evergreens lining the cobblestones with his name on the invoice. He'd been growing trees his whole life, but this was the year someone would finally notice. He found the old oak tree at the edge of the square and cleared his throat, speaking to its gnarled trunk about root systems and branch density like it was the town council itself. His voice cracked on the third sentence, so he started over, this time gesturing with both hands at the tree's whispering leaves, explaining how his evergreens would hold their needles through February while looking half as wild. Back at the nursery, he walked between rows of saplings he'd been tending since spring, their deep green branches dusted with fresh snow. He chose six of the straightest ones, their needles thick and symmetrical, already picturing them lined up in front of the council with tags bearing his careful handwriting about height and hardiness. The town office smelled like pine garland and old paper when he stepped inside, saplings arranged on the table between him and the contract. He signed his name in the margin, ink still wet, and the weight of it made his hands shake just enough that he had to laugh.

Bernard stood in his nursery the morning after signing, breath clouding in the cold air, realizing he didn't know the first thing about what the council actually wanted. He walked to his workbench and pulled out a measuring tape, then moved back to the saplings, wrapping the tape around trunks and writing numbers in his notebook with stiff fingers. The measurements told him what he had, but not what fit where. He needed to see the square itself, study the empty spaces, understand the layout before spring arrived. Bernard closed his notebook and headed toward town, his boots crunching through frozen paths. He found a bench near the square's center, its wooden slats dusted with snow and worn smooth from years of use. Bernard brushed off a spot and sat down, pulling out his notebook again. From here he could see the whole square spread before him, the pathways crossing at angles, the open spaces between buildings where wind whipped through. He sketched rough lines showing where people walked most, where they gathered in clusters, where a tree might block foot traffic or provide shelter. The cold seeped through his coat, but he stayed until he'd marked every corner that needed green, every gap that looked bare. When he finally stood to leave, his fingers were stiff, but the notebook held a map of exactly what the council would need come planting season. Back at the nursery, Bernard stopped at the storage shed near his oldest spruce. He pulled out a metal pole from inside, its surface cold against his palm. He carried it to the row of young evergreens and pressed it against each trunk, checking how tall they'd grown since fall. Some had added six inches, others barely two. He wrote the numbers next to each tree's label in his notebook, marking which types grew fastest in winter cold. The council would want trees that could handle harsh weather and still look full by next December. Bernard measured the last sapling, then carried the pole back inside. Now he knew which trees to focus on and where they needed to go. The next morning, Bernard hammered a wooden sign into the frozen ground near the town office. The sign read "Bernard Acres Farm" in bold letters he'd painted the night before. Below that, smaller text said "Official Tree Supplier." People walking past slowed to read it, some nodding, others stopping to ask questions about his trees. Bernard answered each one, explaining his evergreens and when they'd be ready for planting. By noon, three people had asked for his address to visit the nursery in spring. He walked home with the empty toolbox swinging at his side, knowing the work was just starting, but feeling like he'd finally put down roots of his own.