The Vieux-Port pulsed, not with waves or motors, but a hum—low, alive, threading through stone, sea, and bone. It whispered to gulls, fishermen, the city itself: something will grow here.

At dawn, they came: Les Compagnons du Jardin. Syllas, whose hands smelled of citrus. Thalie, her hair tangled with twigs. They were not just gardeners but weavers of city and soil. No one asked permission; no one gave it.

A peach tree rose overnight, its roots cracking asphalt, its branches laden. Fishermen paused. Children laughed. Fruit dropped like soft rebellions, sweet with possibility. The hum grew louder. The city listened.

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