Chloe kneels in her plot at the edge of the village square, trowel in hand, watching the stranger unload. The woman sets up near the center fountain with boxes and tools Chloe doesn't recognize. Already three other gardeners have stopped their weeding to drift closer. Chloe stays put, but her eyes track every movement. She's been chasing Old Marren's title for two seasons, and now someone new arrives with methods none of them know. By afternoon, a small glasshouse stands where the stranger worked. The building gleams in the sunlight, its glass ceiling catching the light like water. Green vines already climb the walls as if they've been there for years. Inside, Chloe can see rows of soil bags and seed trays stacked neatly on shelves. The other gardeners stand in a half-circle around it, murmuring questions the stranger answers with a calm smile. Chloe drives her trowel into her dry soil and feels it crumble. She needs to see what's in those bags. Not for help—never that—but because knowing your competition means knowing what to beat. She brushes the dirt from her hands and walks toward the glasshouse. The stranger notices her approach and waves her inside. Chloe steps through the door and stops. In the center of the glasshouse sits a metal cabinet the size of a rain barrel, humming softly. Lights glow behind a glass panel. Inside, small pots rotate under colored lamps while tubes drip measured amounts of water into each one. The stranger taps a screen on the front and numbers appear. Chloe stares at the machine, then at the stranger's face, then back at the device. She doesn't ask how it works. She doesn't ask where it came from. She walks out of the glasshouse knowing one thing has changed: beating Marren isn't enough anymore. Outside, the other gardeners crowd around a raised bed the stranger has arranged beside the glasshouse door. Flowers Chloe has never seen spill over the wooden edges in colors that shouldn't exist together but somehow do. Purple petals fade to orange at the tips. Blue stems hold yellow blooms the size of her palm. One of the gardeners reaches out to touch a leaf and pulls back, laughing. The stranger is already answering questions about where the seeds came from, what soil mix she uses, how long until they bloom. Chloe doesn't join the circle. She turns back to her own plot, her mind already working. The stranger has tools and flowers that could change everything. But tools break. Flowers die. And Chloe knows how to wait for mistakes.

Morning light spills across the village square as Chloe kneels by her bed again. She presses her fingers into the soil and feels it break apart, dry and loose between her knuckles. The stranger's glasshouse glints across the way, quiet but always watching. Chloe keeps her head down and works, hoping no one looks too closely at what her hands already know. A shadow falls across her plot. A red-haired gardener in a bee-stamped shirt crouches beside her, gloved hand sinking into Chloe's bed. "Your soil's crumbling," she says, too loud. "Won't hold a drop." Across the square, the stranger looks up from her flowers. Their eyes meet. Chloe's stomach drops. She forces a tight smile, brushes the dust from her gloves, and stands. The redhead lingers, satisfied, like she's planted something of her own. Chloe walks toward the fountain with her chin high. Her secret is loose in the air now, and the stranger has already caught it. The stranger waits by a stone wishing well ringed with bright blooms. She doesn't pretend she didn't hear. "Dry beds can be fixed," she says, gentle. "I have a mix that holds water for days." She offers a small cloth bag. Chloe stares at it. Behind her, the redhead watches. Other gardeners slow their steps to watch too. Taking the bag means admitting the crack. Refusing means letting it bleed in public. Chloe's pride locks her jaw tight. She shakes her head once. "My garden, my problem," she says, and steps past the well without touching the bag. She returns to her plot and kneels in the loose, hungry dirt. A few white blooms scatter the bed like spilled salt, the rest only weeds and stone. Chloe grips her trowel. The stranger knows. The square knows. Hiding the weakness is no longer a plan she can keep. She digs a fresh hole and decides, right there, that she will rebuild this bed herself before the next watering — her own way, her own hands, no bag from anyone. The secret is dead. The race has started.