In a quiet village nestled between green hills and silver rivers, lived a boy named Lian. His village was beautiful but troubled—drought had dried up the fields, and many people had given up hope.
But not Lian.
Every morning before the sun rose, he walked to the dry edge of the old riverbed and planted a seed. Just one. Then he watered it with what little water he had saved from his drinking cup.
People laughed.
“Seeds won’t grow in dust,” they said.
“Hope doesn’t grow in this village anymore.”
But Lian smiled. He planted one the next day. And the next. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to months. One day, a green sprout broke the surface. Then another. And another.
The rains came back, softly at first, then stronger. The seeds began to bloom into tall trees and fresh crops. Birds returned. The air smelled of life again.
Years later, Lian’s grove became a forest. His village thrived.
When asked why he kept planting seeds when everyone else gave up, Lian answered with a quiet voice:
“Because hope grows when you believe in it—even when no one else does.”
