Green in the Dust

“You can laugh at miracles all you like—until you’re the one holding the seed.”

“I’ll hold the bag open for you,” I offered Luke, stepping forward as I took the black garbage bag from his hands. The material crinkled loudly in my grip, brittle and awkward, its plastic sheen catching the flickering light from the fire. I stretched it wide, holding it steady while Luke began to drop the empty food containers inside. Each hollow clunk of plastic against plastic echoed slightly in the stillness of the evening, a small soundtrack to our impromptu clean-up.

“You remember the dreams I told you about?” Luke asked suddenly, his voice softer now, laced with something more contemplative. It wasn’t a casual remark—there was weight behind it, a searching note that lingered in the air between us. I caught the flicker in his expression—part hope, part something else. Earnestness, maybe. Or the need to be understood.

I let out a loud chuckle before I could stop myself, the memory of those odd conversations with Luke bubbling up to the surface. “How could I forget? Jane and I used to make fun of you for them.”

The warmth of those old moments surprised me. My laughter carried that comfort, but nestled beneath it was a bittersweet edge. That time felt impossibly far away now, like a memory sealed behind glass.

“You did?” Luke asked, eyebrows arching in what appeared to be genuine surprise. His expression—somewhere between mild offence and amusement—was almost childlike, and for a second, it lightened the mood. I smiled to myself, shaking my head faintly. For all his supposed foresight, Luke was still caught off guard by the obvious.

“Well,” I said, watching his reaction with open amusement. I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Luke, if anyone, should be immune to my brutal honesty by now. “You were always so serious about them. How could we not find it amusing?” I shrugged, my tone dancing between playful and sincere. I meant what I said. Back then, his solemn interpretations of cryptic dreams and messages from the ether had seemed more eccentric than prophetic. Of course we’d teased him.

"I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised," Luke replied, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. There was no sting in his words, only a weary acceptance. Perhaps even a hint of nostalgia. His voice had that same blend of resignation and amusement that so often accompanied the memories we all carried—scuffed around the edges but treasured all the same.

I met his gaze briefly, letting the moment settle between us. The fire crackled beside us, sending tiny sparks up into the starlit dark, and for a moment it felt as though the past and present were sitting side by side, linked by laughter, memories, and the quiet business of scraping meaning from chaos.

"Oh, have you heard the news?" I blurted out, my voice lifted by a sudden surge of excitement. It came out sharper than I intended, almost too eager, but I couldn’t help myself. The shift in tone was deliberate, a conscious pivot away from the weight of nostalgia and into something immediate, something I could share that might spark a little hope. I had little patience for lingering too long in places we couldn’t return to—memories were comforting, yes, but also dangerous when they threatened to anchor us in the past.

“What news?” Luke asked, his brow lifting with interest, the subtle spark in his eyes betraying his curiosity. His attention, once half-scattered, was now fully tethered to me.

“Follow me,” I said, already discarding the garbage bag with a careless flick of my wrist. It landed softly in the dust, forgotten. My gesture for him to come along was almost theatrical in its urgency, driven by the energy bubbling in my chest. I didn’t wait for him to respond. My legs had already carried me forward, each step brisk and brimming with purpose.

Luke trailed after me without hesitation, his boots crunching over the loose soil as he matched my stride. I could feel him at my side, attentive and intrigued, drawn forward not just by my words but by the promise of something unexpected—something hopeful.

“We didn’t know what else to do with them, so we’ve just left them there for now,” I explained quickly, casting a glance his way. My tone was rushed, the cadence of my speech picking up with every step. The thrill of it—the revelation, the sense of having something real to show him—sent a quiet thrill through me.

“Left what where?” Luke’s question came with the sharp edge of confusion. There was a hint of frustration in his voice, like a man being handed puzzle pieces without the picture.

“The coriander plants,” I said, turning my head slightly so the words wouldn’t get lost behind me.

“Huh?” His footsteps faltered, just a beat behind mine, and I could almost hear his eyebrows raising in bemusement. It was such a Luke reaction—equal parts baffled and intrigued.

I came to a halt beside the tent, my boots skimming the edge of the canvas wall. With a small flourish, I pivoted to face him. “Coriander plants,” I repeated, my voice softening with reverence as I pointed to the row of tiny, verdant shoots pushing up through the soil.

They were fragile, barely more than whispers of green against the reddish dust, but their presence was undeniable. Their delicate leaves had begun to uncurl as if they, too, were cautiously exploring this strange new world. For a moment, I simply watched Luke take it in, the shifting firelight from the camp flickering faintly on his face as he stared at the improbable miracle growing beside our shelter.

Here, in this place of ruin and reinvention, life had taken root. And I couldn’t wait to see how it changed everything.

My excitement was barely contained as I gestured towards the plants, my arm sweeping out with an uncontainable energy. It seemed almost laughable—such a small thing, a scatter of green in a sea of red dust. But here, in this desolate landscape, it felt like a triumph. The act of planting something was no longer just botanical—it was defiance, a silent but stubborn declaration that we still intended to live, to thrive, to reclaim a future on our own terms.

It was hope. Tangible, living hope. And I found myself watching Luke's face intently, searching for any flicker of understanding, any spark of shared wonder. We needed small miracles now, and I was offering him one.

“How—” Luke began, the single word barely escaping his lips. He stopped himself mid-sentence, his gaze caught not by the plants, but by the slow, deliberate movement of my hand.

From my pocket, I drew a small ziplock bag, the plastic whispering between my fingers. Inside were a handful of coriander seeds—smooth, familiar, mundane under normal circumstances. But now? They were precious. Earlier, I’d told Chris we were out, but that had been a half-truth. I’d discovered a few clinging stubbornly in the corners of my pocket, stowaways from another life. I hadn’t told him. I had decided then to save them—for something like this. A demonstration. A reveal. A little theatre, perhaps, but one rooted in purpose.

With care that bordered on reverence, I knelt down and pressed a single seed into the soil beside its leafy siblings. The earth, warm and unusually pliable, yielded easily. I exhaled slowly, grounding myself in the moment, letting my fingertips linger just a second longer than necessary.

We waited.

And then, impossibly, the change began. The seed husk cracked with an audible snap so faint you might mistake it for imagination. A pale shoot unfurled, almost languidly, its roots curling into the soil like fingers seeking a home. Leaves followed, delicate and green, pushing upwards as if called by the light. The air around us seemed to still, heavy with disbelief and awe.

“Impressive,” Luke breathed, the word barely audible. His tone was one of quiet reverence, as if speaking too loudly might somehow disturb the miracle we’d just witnessed.

I turned to him, the wonder of the moment giving way to the sobering reality that followed. “But there’s a big problem,” I said, my voice dropping, tinged now with frustration. The joy of the seed’s swift transformation was always short-lived, chased by the same grim thought that dogged us every hour—the relentless, choking dust. It settled into everything, blanketing our clothes, our skin, our lungs. And now, it threatened even this fragile, defiant greenery.

Luke crouched beside me, his movements slow and respectful, as if acknowledging the sacredness of what had just occurred. His fingers brushed over one of the new leaves, the tips barely grazing its surface. The leaf trembled, but held.

“What’s that?” he asked softly, concern knitting into his features. His attention was fully on me now—no teasing, no distraction. Just focus. And I could feel it: the shift. We weren’t just talking about plants anymore.

“There’s too much dust! We need to find a way to clear it,” I explained, the exasperation in my voice slipping through before I could temper it. The dust was everywhere—an unyielding, suffocating blanket that settled over everything like a plague. It wasn’t just an annoyance anymore; it was a threat. To us. To the plants. To the very hope we were trying to coax out of the ground.

Luke looked up at me, his eyes flicking sideways with a roll that might have been involuntary, but it didn’t escape my notice. My jaw tensed, and I scowled, the expression forming without thought. Maybe he didn’t mean it—maybe it was just habit—but in that moment, his seeming nonchalance grated against the sheer effort it had taken to keep those seedlings alive.

“Any ideas?” he asked quickly, his tone shifting in a clear attempt to defuse my rising irritation. I could see it in the way he straightened, his voice measured—trying to sound constructive rather than dismissive.

“I’ve tried moving some with a shovel, but in most places that I've checked, it’s at least a few feet deep,” I replied, the weight of the challenge evident in every word. My arms still ached from the futile labour earlier in the day, the effort to shift what felt like tonnes of fine, clinging red powder. And it wasn’t just the depth—it was the way the dust resettled almost immediately, as though the ground itself was determined to reclaim every inch.

“Hmm,” was all Luke offered. A non-committal hum, but not an unkind one. I knew it was his way of processing—thinking through the possibilities without making empty promises. Still, the silence that followed carried with it a quiet sense of impossibility.

Driven by a blend of fatigue and determination, I blurted out what I had barely allowed myself to consider. “I think a bit of heavy machinery would be best,” I said, arms crossed, the words slipping out with more confidence than I actually felt. It was a long shot, and I knew it—but we needed long shots. We needed miracles.

To my surprise, Luke’s expression shifted. His brow lifted, and his eyes suddenly lit with something that resembled hope—no, more than that. A spark of action. “Leave it with me. I’ll sort it,” he said, his voice firm and certain.

The tone in his voice caught me off guard. It wasn’t bravado. It was conviction. And though I wasn’t sure how, or when, or even what he had in mind, I nodded slowly—because for the first time that day, I believed he might actually find a way.

Sensing that I had successfully nudged Luke back onto the same wavelength as me, a quiet flicker of momentum began to stir in my chest. I felt emboldened—like a dam had broken and now the flood of ideas, once cautious and contained, surged forth without restraint. “And you know, I was thinking, now that we can grow plants quicker, that we can put a few fences up over there by the river for my ducks. They’d absolutely love it down there with a few reeds and a little duck house,” I continued, the vision unfolding in my mind’s eye as I spoke. It felt almost surreal, speaking aloud these dreams in a place so raw and unformed. Yet, somehow, that made them feel more urgent. More real.

Luke nodded silently, his brow furrowing slightly and his eyes widening just enough for me to see the cogs beginning to turn. I watched him take it all in—the tiny green plants at our feet, the dusty horizon, and now my cascade of ideas tumbling into the future. His expression shifted from amusement to something more contemplative, as if the scope of what I was suggesting was only just beginning to take root in him.

“And my chickens will need to be relocated,” I added without missing a beat. “Don’t forget their henhouse.” The words left me without hesitation, underpinned by an unwavering certainty. This wasn’t just fantasy. This was my reality, waiting to be rebuilt. Every hen, every duck, every plank of that old henhouse was a part of the life I refused to let go of.

“Karen, slow down,” Luke interjected, his voice gentle but steady, as his gaze drifted back down to the coriander seedlings, perhaps hoping their calm growth would counterbalance the flurry I had just unleashed. It was a fair reaction—his plate was already full, and here I was, piling on future plans like it was market day.

But I couldn’t stop. “Luke, I’m serious. You need to look after my animals until I am ready for you to bring them all here, to me,” I said, the edge of urgency threading into my voice now. I could feel it rising—an ache in my chest, the weight of responsibility and affection pressing against the limits of what I could contain. The thought of them—feathered and curious, awaiting my return—gnawed at my heart. They weren’t just animals. They were mine. My tether. My continuity.

Luke looked up at me then, his expression shifting from thoughtful to resolute. There was something in his eyes—a glint of recognition, perhaps—that told me he understood. That he knew, somehow, what those animals meant to me.

“All of them. I don’t want any of them suffering or dying before then,” I pressed on, my voice low but firm, each word deliberately placed like stones in a foundation. This wasn’t negotiable. This was a promise I needed to draw from him with the weight of every ounce of trust I could muster.

A hush fell over us, the quiet punctuated only by the distant murmur of the river and the soft rustling of the canvas behind us. Luke’s eyes met mine, steady and unflinching, and after a pause that stretched just long enough to hold meaning, he finally replied, “I promise.”

A wave of relief rolled over me, as warm and welcome as a sunbeam cutting through morning fog. I smiled—genuinely, freely. That simple word, spoken with quiet conviction, planted its own seed within me. One of reassurance. One of hope. Luke’s promise wasn’t just about the animals. It was a vow to preserve a fragment of who I was, of where I’d come from—and of the life I still intended to build here.