Niko planted the peppercorn because he had nothing else left. The frost had taken his basil, the birds had stolen his figs, and the landlord had raised the rent on the tiny patch behind his shop.
By spring, a slender tree grew there with leaves glossy as green glass. Its fruit looked like peppercorns, but each visitor tasted something different. For a tired nurse, the berries were warm and buttery. For a fisherman, they tasted like salt wind. For a grieving woman, they tasted exactly like her father’s Sunday roast.
People lined up quietly, not to buy, but to remember. Niko charged only a story in return. By the end of the year, the little orchard held hundreds of tales, and its branches bent low with pepper that tasted like home to anyone brave enough to describe what home meant.