Vivaan bent over the cracked pots again. The soil looked brown and sleepy, with no brave green shoots at all. A pigeon cooed from the railing, and laundry flapped on the next terrace, but the rooftop felt dull.

“It’s failing,” he said, frowning hard. He tapped the dirt with his tiny red shovel. “Maybe the seeds don’t like our roof.”

Then he folded his arms and stared at the silent pots, as if waiting could make them answer.