The Slow Tilt and Harvest of Half Measures
Raphael stood in the dirt patch behind the workshops, a small basket of seeds in his hands. The morning air was cool and still. He had picked this spot months ago because it was quiet and out of the way.
No one bothered him here unless they needed a tool. Today he meant to plant a few rows of greens, nothing complicated. Just something to do with his hands.
He knelt and reached for the first seed. His fingers placed it, then the next, then the next. They lined up without him meaning to.
Perfect spacing, straight as a ruler. He frowned, scooped them up, and tried again. This time he tossed them carelessly. They landed in neat spirals anyway. He stared at the pattern.
"Old habits," he muttered.
He grabbed a trowel, a watering can, and a small hourglass he kept for timing water. Everything ended up aligned by size on the low bench. Even the spilled soil formed even mounds.
