Once there was a man everyone called **Tomato Man**, though no one remembered his real name—not even him. He lived in a narrow house at the edge of the market, where the air always smelled faintly of sun-warmed vines. Every morning, Tomato Man woke before dawn, put on his red suspenders, and tended his garden. The tomatoes grew in impossible ways: heart-shaped, spiral-striped, glowing faintly at dusk. People said they tasted like whatever you needed most—comfort, courage, forgiveness. Tomato Man never sold them for money. Instead, he traded. A widow received a basket in exchange for a story about her late husband. A tired baker traded a laugh. A child once offered a button and got a tomato that cured his fear of the dark. Tomato Man accepted everything with the same quiet nod, as if each trade mattered the same. One summer, a greyness crept into the town. Crops failed. People argued. The market grew loud and sharp. Someone finally asked Tomato Man why he never left, never complained, never seemed afraid. He paused, dirt on his hands, and said, “Because I was once empty soil.” That night, the townspeople found his garden glowing red like a fallen constellation. By morning, Tomato Man was gone. In his place stood a single plant, heavy with fruit. The town survived that year. And ever since, when someone tastes a tomato that feels a little too warm, a little too kind, they smile and say, “Ah, tomato man is still around."