On the sunny, sugar-sand shores of Flavor Island, where the air smelled like warm cinnamon and the waves giggled splash-splosh against the rocks, lived a kind-hearted boy named Angel. His hair was as wild as a bird’s nest after a windy day, and his pockets were always stuffed with treasures—smooth pebbles, crunchy seashells, and once, even a very confused crab that pinched his finger ouch! before scuttling away.

One morning, as Angel skipped along the shore, his bare feet sinking into sand as soft as powdered sugar, he heard a tiny voice. "Psst! Down here!" It sounded like a squeaky toy with a cold. He crouched down and saw a tiny seed, no bigger than his thumbnail, trembling in a puddle of seawater. Its shell was rough like a pinecone, and it smelled faintly of rain-soaked earth.

"I—I can’t grow here," the seed whispered, its voice wobbling like jelly. "The storm’s coming, and the waves will wash me away!" Sure enough, the sky was turning the color of a bruise, and the wind howled like a hungry wolf. Angel’s heart did a little flip. He couldn’t let the seed get swept away! But how? He wasn’t a gardener. He once tried to grow a jellybean plant, and all he got was a sticky mess and a very grumpy ant.

Then—BAM!—a wave as tall as a giraffe crashed onto the shore, spraying Angel with salty water that tasted like tears. The seed yelped and rolled toward the ocean. Without thinking, Angel lunged and scooped it up. "Gotcha!" he cried, but—whoops!—he tripped over his own feet and landed face-first in a pile of seaweed as slimy as a snake’s scarf. The seed tumbled out of his hand and plopped into the sand.

The wind shrieked like a banshee, and the rain pelted down, stinging Angel’s cheeks like tiny needles. He had to act fast! He dug a little hole with his fingers, as deep as a teacup, and tucked the seed inside. Then he piled rocks around it, big ones, small ones, even a lopsided one that looked like a grumpy old man. "There," he panted, wiping rain from his eyes. "Now you’re safe!"

But the storm wasn’t done. The waves roared like a lion, and the wind tugged at Angel’s clothes like a mischievous puppy. CRACK! A lightning bolt split the sky, and Angel’s knees knocked together like castanets. He curled up next to his rock fortress, his teeth chattering like a typewriter. "I—I hope you’re okay, little seed," he whispered.

For what felt like forever, the storm raged. Angel hugged his knees, his clothes soaked and heavy as a wet blanket. The smell of salt and seaweed filled his nose, and the sound of the waves was like a drumroll that never ended. But then—shhhh—the wind softened. The rain turned to a drizzle, and the sky lightened to the color of lemonade. Angel peeked out from behind his hands. The storm was over!

He scrambled to his feet and ran to the little pile of rocks. "Seed? Are you okay?" he called. No answer. His stomach twisted like a pretzel. Had he failed? But then—crack! A tiny green sprout pushed through the sand, wiggling like a worm in a rainstorm. The seed was alive! And it was growing!

Days passed, and Angel visited his little seed every morning. He brought it drops of water from his cupped hands and sang silly songs to it (even though he was completely off-key). The sprout grew taller, its leaves unfurling like tiny green umbrellas. Then, one day, Angel arrived to find the seed had become a sapling, its bark rough like elephant skin, its branches stretching toward the sky like arms waking up from a nap.

Years later, Angel was all grown up, but he still visited Flavor Island. And there, in the spot where he’d once dug a tiny hole, stood a great tree, its leaves rustling like a thousand whispering secrets. Its branches were strong enough to hold a treehouse, and its roots ran deep into the earth, as sturdy as a giant’s legs. The air around it smelled like honey and sunshine, and the sound of birds chirping filled the air like a symphony.

One day, a little girl with wild hair and pockets full of treasures skipped up to the tree. "Wow!" she gasped. "Who planted you?" Angel, now a grown-up with a smile as warm as fresh-baked cookies, knelt down beside her. "A little seed did," he said. "But it needed a friend to help it through the storm."

The girl’s eyes sparkled like dewdrops. "Can I be its friend too?" she asked. Angel laughed, the sound as bright as a bell. "I think it would like that very much."

And so, under the watchful branches of the great tree, the story began again.