For a moment, tears filled her eyes.
She remembered how embarrassed she'd felt.
How frightened she was of wasting money.
And how badly she needed the experiment to reveal something useful.
Now she could look at that young woman with kindness.
She hadn't known what would happen.
She hadn't been certain the fish would find anything.
But she'd been willing to test an idea instead of accepting an explanation that didn't match her observations.
Eliza looked toward the two older men.
"Thank you."
Otis smiled.
Then became serious.
"We were wrong to laugh."
She nodded.
"Yes, you were."
Raymond chuckled.
"Fair enough."
Then Eliza smiled.
"But I appreciate the picture."
She hung it in the equipment shed beside Samuel's old tools.
Not to remind the farmers of their embarrassment.
To remind herself that being uncertain wasn't a reason to stop asking questions.
On the fifth anniversary of Samuel's death, Eliza visited the cemetery alone.
The morning was cool.
A light breeze moved through the oak branches above the graves.
She carried a small bunch of wildflowers from the edge of the farm.
For several minutes, she stood beside her father's headstone without speaking.
Then she knelt.
Placed the flowers near the base.
And brushed a few fallen leaves from the stone.
She had imagined this visit many times.
During the worst months of the water dispute, she thought about coming here to tell him she was losing the land.
After the fish experiment, she wanted to tell him she'd found the old junction.
When the legal documents confirmed that the south lateral's rights had not simply vanished, she wanted to bring him the report.
And when the repaired system carried its first controlled flow, she wanted him to see it.
But now, standing beside his grave, she realized she didn't need to explain every detail.
He'd known the farm.
He'd known the old ditch.
And he'd spent years asking questions because the answers never seemed right.
Eliza smiled through tears.
"You were right, Dad."
For a moment, she looked toward the sky.
Then laughed softly.
"Not about everything."
She remembered the old tractor he refused to replace.
The questionable repairs.
And the year he insisted he could predict rain by watching ants near the porch.
Then she became quiet.
"But you were right about the water."
Her voice trembled.
"We found it."
She took a breath.
"And we figured out what happened."
For several seconds, she remained still.
Then whispered.
"The farm's doing okay."
She smiled.
"Actually, it's doing better than okay."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"I wish you could see it."
The wind moved through the oak leaves.
Eliza closed her eyes.
And for a moment, she remembered being a little girl sitting on an overturned bucket, handing her father tools while he worked beneath the tractor.
Broken doesn't mean finished.
She opened her eyes.
Then stood.
Before leaving, she rested one hand against the headstone.
"Thank you for not giving up."