Here is Chapter 23: The Seed Library, a chapter that shifts gently into Benaiah's world—a world where healing begins with dirt under the fingernails and the courage to grow something new.
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Chapter 23: The Seed Library
It started with a shoebox.
Inside were old seed packets—some half-used, some expired, some written in languages Benaiah couldn't read. He found it under the sink in the Rebuild Centre's kitchen while helping wash dishes one Saturday.
"Who do these belong to?" he asked, holding it up.
Bonitah peered into the box. "They were left by the women who used to run the soup garden years ago, before this place became ours. Forgotten, I guess."
Benaiah looked at the packets with curiosity.
Each one held more than seeds.
They held potential.
That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the idea forming like morning dew on his thoughts.
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The next week, he cleared out a corner of the Rebuild Centre—an unused room with good sunlight and peeling paint.
He called it:
"The Seed Library."
There were no books, just baskets. And dirt. And possibility.
He posted a sign at the door:
> Leave a seed. Take a seed. Plant a story.
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The first boys to come were skeptical.
"Library for seeds? What's this, gardening school?" one scoffed.
But Benaiah didn't argue.
He handed the boy a packet of tomato seeds and a pot of soil.
"Try it. If it doesn't grow, you can throw it at me."
Laughter. But the boy took it.
And came back two weeks later holding a sprout.
Something had shifted.
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Soon, the room filled with boys—mostly sons of the women who baked, cleaned, and taught at the Centre. Some were quiet. Some were angry. Some were restless.
Benaiah welcomed them all.
They didn't just plant seeds.
They wrote on slips of paper:
"Things I want to grow in my life."
Some wrote peace.
Others wrote a dad who stays.
One wrote confidence in shaky, all-caps handwriting.
They folded the notes and buried them beneath the soil with the seeds.
Planting hope was a holy ritual.
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One boy, Tafara, was twelve and never spoke. He'd seen too much violence at home. At first, he refused to touch the soil. Just sat and watched.
But one day, Benaiah gave him a packet of sunflower seeds and said, "You don't have to say anything. Just plant it."
Tafara did.
Three weeks later, when the first yellow petal bloomed, he whispered, "I didn't think anything beautiful could come from me."
Benaiah put a hand on his shoulder.
"It did."
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Bonitah watched all this from a quiet distance.
Her heart swelled—not with pride, but with awe.
Benaiah wasn't rebuilding his past.
He was rewriting the future.
One seed at a time.
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Soon, the Seed Library gained attention.
A local farming co-op donated starter kits.
A primary school asked to replicate the project.
Someone from the Ministry of Youth stopped by and left impressed.
But Benaiah didn't care for headlines.
He cared about Tafara's sunflower.
About the pots lined up like quiet declarations.
About the boys who now stayed after class just to water something that reminded them they mattered.
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One evening, Bonitah came in to find a new sign on the wall.
Painted in green, shaky letters:
> "Not all boys need to be warriors. Some need to be gardeners."
She touched the sign gently.
And said, "Amen."