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The waiting. Oh, the waiting. Like a hesitant lover, coleus seeds demand patience, a quality often lost in the rush of modern life. Tiny specks, no bigger than a grain of sand, hold the promise of fiery sunsets and emerald depths. You cradle them in warmth, whisper encouragements under the soft glow of grow lights, willing them to break free. Each sunrise brings renewed hope, each sunset, a flicker of doubt. Then, one glorious morning, a miracle: tiny green flags unfurling, defiant against the dark soil. It’s a slow, sweet victory, a reminder that even the smallest seeds can blossom into something breathtaking.

The dormant seeds, miniature sunbursts trapped in winter’s icy grip, yearn for spring. I sow them in upcycled plastic, a makeshift greenhouse mirroring nature’s patient slumber. The wait feels like an eternity, a muted symphony of frozen mornings and hushed afternoons. Then, a whisper of green – the first brave seedlings emerge, tentative hands reaching for light. A wave of accomplishment washes over me, warm and bright as the very summer blooms they promise to become. This delicate dance between patience and anticipation, winter’s chill and summer’s fire, yields the sweetest reward: a burst of color in a world hungry for it.