Anyone who has ever purchased seeds from a garden center knows the drill: rows upon rows of cheerfully illustrated packets, each promising botanical splendor while delivering, at best, spotty success rates that would make a Las Vegas bookie blush. But then there are Shido seeds, which arrive vacuum-sealed like precious artifacts from some horticultural future where failure simply isn't an option.
The neighbors, naturally, remain skeptical. Mrs. Henderson from two doors down still swears by her grandmother's method of storing seeds in old film canisters beneath her bed, a practice that has produced exactly three successful marigolds since 1987. Yet here stands a garden sprouting with such vigor that passing children have begun spreading rumors about magic beans
