Elias moved on to the craft shop downtown. It was a riot of color—yarn, glitter, and felt. In the back corner, near the candle-making supplies, he found them: small, round tins with clear lids. They were pretty, yes, but they were flimsy. He picked one up, and it yielded under the slight pressure of his thumb. They weren't meant for the rough-and-tumble life of a gardener's pocket. They were for lip balms and delicate things.

"Those are food-grade," she said, coming around the counter. "Air-tight. People use them for spices, but they’ll hold just about anything you want to keep safe from the world."

do you prefer? (Round, rectangular, or with a clear window?)

Elias bought the whole stack. As he walked home, the tins rattled gently in his bag—a rhythmic, metallic song of purpose. They weren't just containers; they were the new homes for his meadow, ready to be buried, gifted, or tucked away in a drawer for another sixty years.

He began his quest at the local hardware store, a place where the floorboards groaned under the weight of tradition. The clerk, a young man with a pencil tucked behind his ear, pointed him toward the canning aisle. There were glass jars by the hundreds, shimmering under the fluorescent lights, but no metal. "Glass keeps things fresh," the clerk said with a shrug. "Metal? That’s for antiques."