Kurinji’s father, desperate for extra money, became a guide. He would lead groups of tourists to the flower fields, reciting facts the scientists had told him. “Lifespan of twelve years… blooms synchronously… then the plant dies.” He was proud of his knowledge. He didn't see the sadness in his daughter’s eyes.

In twelve years, she would be twenty-four. A woman. She would come back to this hill. She would sing the songs her grandmother taught her. And she would wait for the earth to bleed blue again.

Kurinji felt it before she saw it. A restlessness in the earth. The wind had a new scent, not of damp earth and tea, but of honey and old stone. She started walking further from the plantation lines after her chores, drawn by a silent hum that only she could hear. Her friends laughed. “Chasing ghosts, Kurinji?” they teased. But she knew. The Neelakurinji was waking up.