The day began without preamble. Pale, distant light filtered through the stone vents, washing the garden in a glow that did not seem to belong to this world. The rays fell at an angle, almost dense, as if light itself had weight. The air vibrated with an early, humid warmth that clung to my skin like a second, invisible layer.

  The murmur of the earth greeted me before Eldreich did. It was low and slow—more sensation than sound—like the breathing of some ancient being buried beneath tons of stone. Eldreich was already there, unmoving, his staff planted firmly in the soil, his gaze fixed on a point I could not see. He did not greet me. He did not need to. His silence was the command.

  I continued where I had left off the day before.

  Time inside the garden did not move the way it did outside. The light remained trapped in a perpetual dawn, but my body counted every passing minute. I bent over the sprouts with care, removing tiny insects that looked as if they were made of polished metal or dust from impossible colors. Some clung to the leaves as if guarding them; others simply rested, indifferent to my presence.

  They were simply part of it all.

  Removing them without harm required a precision I did not have at first. More than once my pulse was too rough, I learned to correct myself, to wait half a second longer. To breathe before touching.

  Weeds grew between the sprouts with almost feral determination. Their roots intertwined beneath the surface, competing for space. Pulling them demanded firmness—but also attention, if I tugged too quickly, the fragile sprout suffered. If I hesitated, the weed coiled back around it.

  At first, the slowness frustrated me. I wanted progress, I wanted visible results. I wanted to finish one section and move to the next. But every time I tried to rush, something suffered. A torn leaf, an exposed root.

  So I slowed down, more out of necessity than conviction.

  As the hours passed, I began to notice a faint vibration beneath my knees. It was a pulse—like a subtle purring—barely perceptible, it strengthened when my movements were precise and turned uneven when impatience crept in.

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  I did not know whether it came from the earth… or from me.

  The heat intensified as the light grew stronger. Sweat ran down my back, soaking through my clothes, my knees burned against the soil, and my arms grew clumsy with fatigue. Each weed I pulled felt heavier than the last.

  For a moment, I stopped. I looked at the section that still remained and felt a stab of weariness.

  I could leave it like this, I thought. No one would notice, not yet.

  My fingers tightened around the watering can more than necessary. When I tipped it, too much water poured over a small sprout. The soil gave way, and the stem bent beyond recovery.

  I froze.

  The pulse beneath the ground did not change. There was no reproach, only that constant presence.

  I removed the dead sprout carefully and set it aside. There was no drama, just a small, concrete loss. Then I continued.

  The exhaustion did not disappear, but it stopped being the enemy. Each slow movement seemed to align more naturally with that subterranean rhythm. My breathing deepened without effort, I stopped counting what remained.

  There were only my hands and the earth.

  When the tremor in my arms became impossible to ignore, I looked up. Eldreich remained where he always was, leaning on his staff. He did not intervened, he did not correct me, simply watched.

  “I can’t anymore,” I admitted at last. My voice came out low and rough.

  “Then stop,” he replied.

  I blinked.

  “But the weeds won’t,” he added, his tone unchanged.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was a thought spoken aloud or merely a statement of fact—but it was difficult to ignore.

  I looked down again, I felt the vibration beneath my knees.

  I bent forward once more.

  The pain remained, but it no longer filled the entire space. Something larger held it, I do not know how much time passed before the section was finally cleared.

  When I stood, my legs trembled.

  Eldreich approached in silence and studied the ground.

  “Two sprouts died,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Yes.”

  A long pause followed.

  “The others did not.”

  Nothing more.

  There was no praise, no gesture. He turned and walked away among the luminous roots.

  I remained standing for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Then I let myself fall back against the damp earth, my muscles were exhausted but not empty.

  I closed my eyes.

  And this time, I did not try to move faster than it.

  With effort, I sat up. Instead of returning immediately, I crossed my legs and rested my hands on my knees.

  Meditation came without resistance.

  Not because I had mastered anything but because I was not trying to.