Jack approached Ianto, working busily at his computer.
“Researching my family tree.”
“On Boeshane, we had actual trees.”
Ianto looked up, intrigued.
“It was a desert world, trees were vital. Every family adopted one; watered and pruned it, hung tokens from it for those who’d died. Babies were taken to their family tree and a lock of their hair buried at its roots, binding child and tree together. Then on birthdays, we’d take gifts to our tree in thanks for surviving another year.”
Jack sounded wistful.
“Maybe we could plant a family tree,” Ianto suggested.
“I’d like that.”