Because they could not stay forever to tend to the garden they had made, the benefactors of the National Parks Board took on the task of putting all the plants into storage, giving each of them back their unique names. On each and every fern and flowering bush was placed a little slice of silver with a tag, which was inscribed with a secret word that each had been given at birth, names of rooting-places and mulch and moisture and light. That-which-had-stood-guard-at-the-eastern-visitor-centre; under-grass-and-bench-string-fountain-root; the-widest-leaf-upon-the-green-pond-by-the-concert-stage. As the number of boxes massed, so swelled the length of the phrases needed to name them, but the kindly ones had lived very long and had patience and memory to spare; besides, their hands were smooth and steady and their handwriting was neat and small. No sprout or sprig or lichen patch went unnoticed during this long and latent process which took place over the course of many years and, indeed, far into the end of the nation's history, from the halcyon beige-clad days to the twilight of rising seas. In the heat and gloam of their little administrative building they toiled without cease or gripe or sleep, until all that was left were the large ancient trees, the great black trunks of banyan, saga, kapok, and fig that now towered over the bare soil of the hills. Carefully even those were removed and placed into the largest of their clay jars, which were lovingly inscribed with lines of flowing prose, and whose lower reaches had been sculpted and fitted with great delicacy around the old trees' sprawling, many-pronged roots.

God saw this all and was pleased with the work. At the end of the task he applauded the benefactors and their thoroughness in packing up after themselves, for the garden had earned many accolades over its illustrious life and even contributed to the shared heritage of humanity. Remembering his promise, he elevated the benefactors and their descendants to the right hand of his throne. Doubtless they would go on to do more good in other parts of the world, in other times, where there would be many different peoples in many tiny nations who would desire grand and cherished gardens of their own. Even in the island nations of the Pacific, where bare moss clung to rocks. No one was around to see the spaceship leave, for they had perished of the heatwaves two decades earlier.

So it goes.