The Circle did not disperse, though the fire had gone out.
The darkness wrapped around them like a cloak, heavy and soft, filled with the scent of ash and root. It was not oppressive; it was a darkness that expected something. A darkness that leaned closer, as if it, too, wanted to listen.
The Second Seed Child's hand lingered against the soil where the luminous root had pulsed. They could still feel its warmth humming in their veins, steady as a second heartbeat. Every inhale tasted of it. Every blink felt traced with it. They was no longer sure where the soil ended and their own body began.
The Story sat across from them—if "sat" was the right word for something that seemed both within and beyond shape. Its presence filled the Circle like the hush between waves. When it shifted its gaze, not-eyes glimmering faintly, it was as though the entire Garden tilted toward the Child.
"You understand," it said, though its voice was not sound.
The Child frowned faintly. "I don't."
