Another asked how she found trustworthy research partners.
A young woman who had recently inherited a small orchard wanted to know how Dileia handled the emotional pressure of continuing a family operation after losing a parent.
That last question affected her most.
The young woman looked frightened.
She couldn't have been much older than twenty.
Her hands trembled around a notebook.
Dileia listened.
Then said quietly, “You don't have to prove you deserve the farm by doing everything alone.”
The young woman's eyes filled.
Dileia continued.
“Ask for professional advice. Learn the numbers. Keep records. And don't confuse accepting help with failing.”
The young woman nodded.
Then whispered, “Were you scared?”
Dileia laughed softly.
“Every day.”
The woman smiled through tears.
“Really?”
Dileia nodded.
“I still get scared.”
She looked toward the fields beyond the market.
“But fear isn't proof you should quit.”
For several seconds, the two stood quietly.
Then the young woman thanked her.
Dileia watched her walk away.
And suddenly remembered herself two years earlier.
Exhausted.
Covered in mud.
Carrying enormous black roots into a market full of people who thought she was foolish.
She smiled faintly.
Then looked toward the old auction stall.
The wooden crate had been removed.
Another farmer was selling equipment parts nearby.
Nobody seemed to remember exactly where Harlon had stood.
But Dileia did.
She walked toward the spot.
Stopped.
And looked down at the dry ground.
Two years earlier, she'd stood there fighting back tears while a wealthy land developer mocked her father in front of strangers.
Now the farm was still hers.
The mortgage was being managed under a sustainable financial plan.
The research was progressing.
And the cultivated root material had become part of a legitimate agricultural development program.
The future remained uncertain.
There would be failed trials.
Bad weather.
Market risks.
And difficult financial decisions.
But uncertainty no longer felt like defeat.
It felt like something she could study.
Understand.
And manage.
That evening, she drove back toward the Ashford farm.
The sun was setting behind the foothills.
The sky turned pale pink and deep blue.
And dust rose gently behind her truck.
When she reached the driveway, she slowed.
The farmhouse stood beneath the open sky.
The repaired tractor rested beside the machine shed.
And beyond the fence, hundreds of acres of gray-green plants moved in the breeze.
Dileia parked.
Stepped out.
And walked toward her father's old workshop.
Inside, everything smelled familiar.
Machine oil.
Dry wood.
Dust.
And the faint mineral scent of the root samples stored in sealed containers.
She switched on the workbench light.