It was originally just one among hundreds of small black seeds, surrounded by fragile red pulp that was juicy and sweet. They were encased in a thick yet brittle green rind with dark green stripes, maintaining its round shape. The fruit lay on a raised bed, connected to the roots that absorbed nutrients from the soil through creeping vines. Along these vines, broad leaves spread out, always reaching towards the sunlight to produce sugar and new fruit.

Humans call this round, green-skinned, red-fleshed fruit with black seeds a watermelon.

When the time was right, when the watermelon had grown large enough, its flesh turning from pale green to red and sweet, it would be cut from the creeping vines with broad leaves. The fruit would then be sliced open, revealing its sweet, juicy flesh, ready to be eaten by humans. Most of the fruit was consumed by the family that cut it open, while most of the black seeds ended up swallowed and passed through their digestive system undigested, exiting with their waste into the sewage system. Others were spat out while eating, falling into trash bins along with food scraps, later collected by the municipal waste service that came every week.

The seeds that ended up in the sewage would settle with human waste in septic tanks before being pumped out by sanitation workers when the time came. Sometimes they came twice a year, sometimes once a year, or sometimes only upon request by the septic tank owner. The watermelon seeds, along with waste and undigested food like chili seeds, were transported in sanitation trucks to be disposed of at sludge landfills or dried in processing plants to be turned into fuel and fertilizer. The seeds that ended up in the sludge landfill would perish among flies and maggots, unable to grow into new watermelon plants due to the highly acidic, nutrient-depleted, bacteria-rich environment. Those that reached the drying plant would be dehydrated until all moisture was gone, preventing germination, ground into fine powder along with waste, and compacted into pellets to be burned for energy or scattered as compost fertilizer on farms.

The seeds that ended up in trash bins were taken by municipal waste workers to large landfills. However, not all were successfully transported. Some seeds fell through torn trash bags ripped open by rats, spilling onto the ground beside the bins. Among the scattered seeds, some were swept back into the bins, while a small few were forgotten.

The forgotten seeds lay scattered on the ground next to the green trash bins. There were ten in total. Two fell onto asphalt, dry and barren, offering no hope for roots to sprout or plumules to break through in search of water. The asphalt was hard and densely packed with stones—germination was impossible. Five others landed in an area flooded by a continuously leaking water meter, forming puddles that submerged the seeds. They could not sprout in a flood.

Two black seeds landed beneath small cultivated plants—okra and chili—planted by a homeowner who lacked space and used the area next to the trash bins to escape the monotony of living in a densely packed urban housing complex. Nitrophoska fertilizer, red and green granules, had just been scattered around the bases of the climbing plants, as they required support structures to grow. One seed landed under the okra, another under the chili plant, shaded by a longan tree overhead. The leaking water from the meter nourished the soil, seeping deep where the roots of the plants could reach.

The last black seed fell onto moist soil—neither too flooded nor too dry—and in just the right spot beyond the shade of the longan tree, where sunlight could reach it—not too intense, not too dim. Among all its companions, this seed alone found the perfect place.

That night, the plumule emerged from its cotyledon. By the next morning, it had grown taller than half the size of its cotyledon, and two days later, it had anchored into the moist soil. The breeze regulated the temperature, ensuring it was neither too hot nor too cold. The partially open canopy of the longan tree shielded it from harsh sunlight while allowing enough light for growth.

It had to be in between. Not too cold, not too hot. Not too dry, not too flooded. Not too deprived of air, nor too dense. Only then could the Goldilocks conditions be met, allowing germination to proceed, as willed by the Almighty.

While the single seed in moist soil continued to grow, the ones under the okra and chili plant stopped at the final stage of germination—just before photosynthesis could begin. The fertilizer encouraged weed growth, creating competition for water. The watermelon seedling could not compete with the mature plants.

The lone seed in the moist soil, however, thrived. Its first true leaves emerged as its roots grew deeper and more fibrous, strengthening its hold in the earth. The cotyledon shriveled and decomposed, leaving only the young leaves and roots. Now, the watermelon seedling could begin producing its own food through photosynthesis. Chlorophyll in the leaves absorbed carbon dioxide, sunlight, and water from the roots, combining them to produce energy. As a result, its leaves widened, its stem lengthened, and its vines stretched further from where the seed had fallen. The roots grew deeper and wider, seeking more water. As the vine extended, new leaves sprouted. From two leaves, it grew to four, then ten, then twenty... and from a single vine, it branched into two, then three, then four, each producing its own leaves, until there were over fifty leaves.

At last, the watermelon plant had fully matured, starting from a single fortunate black seed that landed in the right place with the right conditions—neither too high nor too low. Flowers began to bloom among the leaves. At first, they were small, releasing nectar that attracted insects. As the insects moved from flower to flower, they transferred pollen. When pollen from a male flower reached a female flower, fertilization occurred. The female flower swelled, its petals shrinking and withering, forming a round fruit. When fully developed, it became a watermelon.

And when that watermelon ripened, its flesh turning red and juicy, new black seeds formed inside—hundreds of them—waiting for the next cycle. They would be eaten by humans and animals, pass through digestive systems, exit into sewage or trash, and scatter wherever fate took them. Out of hundreds of seeds in a single watermelon, only a few would return to the soil. Of those, only a handful would land in fertile ground. And among them, only a few would grow into fruit-bearing plants, producing hundreds of seeds once again. Thus, the watermelon renews its generations and avoids extinction, thanks to those few black seeds that always become the seeds of hope to continue its lineage.