It had been a good long summer of hot days and balmy evenings, the sky morphing from blue into a haze of orange and red, but the autumn changed it all, bringing dark clouds, continual rain. For the first few weeks of September a storm circled above London, drenching the city in relentless showers lasting whole days. Soon it grew difficult for Dapo to remember long hours in the park, hurling bursts of laughter while inhaling newly cut grass. The evenings spent with Charles, sipping pints outside the local pub, finding strange comfort in the tawny glow of sash windows. Temperate nights in his garden, a sweet glass of rosette for company, silently toasting his luck. In that fortnight of oyster-grey skies it was common instead to find felled branches littering the streets each morning, and car windscreens covered with a mosaic of leaves. Wheelie bins lay on their sides, or were found streets away. Occasionally, there was the open-mouthed corpse of a fox.

After the rains the sun returned, albeit with weaker rays, and those who observed the severe weather warnings began to venture outside. Dapo wandered into his back garden to survey the extent of the storm damage and was surprised to find seeds littering the grass, particularly beneath the pear tree he and his wife had planted ten years ago. They were everywhere, glistening and round, tiny glinting eyes peeking upwards as if from a fringe of green hair. They were purple and bloated, a few split open to reveal a slightly pink, fleshy interior. He picked one up. It resembled a water chestnut, curved inward at the centre, except it was slightly rough to the touch. The shell was lined with strange, almost native patterns, on closer inspection more like whorls. No two seeds were the same. He craned his neck, examining his tree. He guessed they’d grown from there, as the tree had sprouted butterfly-wing petals and new, still-tender branches, lily-pad green, bowed and heavy.

He watched the clear sky, looking over the fences at his neighbours’ gardens. The Dentons’ was treeless, but there was a rose bush. The Agyemens’ had a sizable apple tree; both bore new green, supple branches, shimmering blue and violet petals. All were laden with the fruit. He assumed, but couldn’t see, that their grass was full of fallen seeds too. Nothing should have grown that late in the season, let alone so quickly. He rolled the seed between his fingers until he was disquieted by the way the markings rubbed against his skin, creating a rasp he didn’t hear as much as feel. He took it into the kitchen to show Misra.