Chapter 1: The Mulberry Disaster

If my advisor saw the shriveled stick where his precious sapling used to be, I was dead. I tore through plant shops, forums—nothing. Desperation made me reckless.

At peak anxiety, I spammed the campus buy-and-sell Facebook group: "Anyone got a mulberry tree? Seriously, name your price—need it ASAP!"

My hands shook as I typed, the bluish glow of my laptop bouncing off the ramen-stained walls of my shoebox apartment. Every word dripped panic; pride was officially out the window.

A reply slid into my DMs: "Mulberry tree, eight hundred eighty, delivered to your door."

I stared at the message. Eight hundred eighty dollars? For a tree? Was it made of gold or something? But the clock was ticking, and my advisor’s disappointed face haunted me. I shut my eyes, took a shaky breath, and transferred the money before my common sense could kick in.

It was a ridiculous price, but I was cornered. What else could I do?

My thumb hovered over the payment screen for half a second—then I hit send. I braced myself for a month of instant ramen and 99-cent coffee, the unofficial grad student diet.

Minutes later, the seller messaged: come downstairs.

I threw on whatever I could find and headed down, expecting to see a leafy prize.

But all I saw was a tall, handsome guy standing under the weak morning sun, looking like he belonged in a Nike ad, not a plant nursery.

I walked over, heart pounding. "Hey, where’s my mulberry tree?"

He hesitated, pointed at himself, and said, "My name is Mulberry."

I blinked. Was this a prank, or just the universe’s cruelest joke yet?