He came down into the garden without disturbance.
There was no tearing of air, no fracture to mark his arrival.
One moment there was only the quiet, sourceless light and the low breath of the place, and the next his feet found the grass as though they had always been meant to.
The ground accepted him without comment. The light did the same.
It settled over his shoulders, across his hands, touched his face with the same even regard it gave to leaf and stone and sleeping figure alike.
For a moment, he did not move.
He stood within it, taking in not the detail first, but the whole -- the way the garden held itself together.
The amber blossoms that gathered in quiet clusters along the lower boughs, the scatter of wildflowers that had grown where no hand had placed them, the slow, assured presence of the trees themselves.
