The first time the thought appeared, it annoyed him.
It happened in the library.
Larius was staring at a shelf.
Again.
A single book was missing.
Not lost.
Just misplaced.
Somewhere.
He knew it had to be nearby.
The catalog said it was checked in yesterday.
The shelf said otherwise.
He crouched.
Checked the row.
Then the shelf above.
Then below.
Nothing.
Ten minutes later he was still looking.
His irritation steadily increased.
The library remained stubbornly calm around him.
The air-conditioning hummed quietly.
A printer clicked somewhere in the distance.
Pages turned.
People walked.
Life continued.
Meanwhile he was losing a battle against one book.
"Need help?"
Larius looked up.
Mary stood nearby.
She volunteered three days a week.
Late sixties maybe.
Grey hair.
Small glasses.
Moved slowly.
Worked frighteningly fast.
"Missing book."
She glanced at the call number.
Then walked three shelves over.
Reached up.
Pulled out a book.
The book.
Silence.
Larius stared.
"...how?"
Mary looked at the cover.
"Wrong section."
"I checked there."
"No."
She pointed.
"Wrong height."
Larius blinked.
"...wrong height?"
Mary nodded.
"The people who shelve in a hurry usually put books at eye level."
Silence.
Then:
"...that's a thing?"
"It becomes a thing after a while."
She slid the book into the correct position.
Then walked away.
Leaving Larius staring after her.
The interaction lasted maybe twenty seconds.
It bothered him for the next two hours.
Because that wasn't intelligence.
Or was it?
He couldn't decide.
The thought followed him during lunch.
And afterward.
And on the bus home.
Because she didn't solve the problem.
She recognized it.
Instantly.
The difference felt important.
He just didn't know why yet.
1
Three days later Marcus accidentally made things worse.
Not physically.
Philosophically.
Larius was doing stretches.
Poorly.
Marcus corrected his posture.
Again.
"Shoulders."
"They're trying."
"They're failing."
"That's rude."
Marcus ignored that.
He adjusted Larius's stance slightly.
A few centimeters.
Suddenly the movement felt easier.
Not easy.
Easier.
Larius stopped.
"...why?"
Marcus shrugged.
"Practice."
"No."
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
"No, seriously."
Larius frowned.
"How did you know that tiny adjustment would work?"
Marcus stared.
Then laughed.
"You think I figured that out today?"
"...didn't you?"
"Ten years."
Silence.
Larius blinked.
"What?"
"Ten years."
Marcus shrugged.
"Maybe more."
The gym suddenly felt different.
Weights.
Machines.
Mirrors.
People running.
How many years?
That man on the treadmill.
How long?
The woman deadlifting.
How long?
Marcus adjusting posture.
Ten years.
The realization sat oddly in his chest.
Not inspiring.
Heavy.
Because suddenly everyone looked older.
Not physically.
Accumulated.
2
The city began changing after that.
Not actually.
His perception of it.
On the bus ride home he started noticing things.
A man fixing traffic lights.
Someone painting over graffiti.
Road workers replacing concrete.
A mechanic shop.
A woman walking three dogs simultaneously with terrifying efficiency.
Everywhere he looked—
people were doing things.
Competently.
Comfortably.
Automatically.
And for the first time he wondered:
How long?
How many repetitions?
How many failures happened before it looked effortless?
The question lodged itself in his mind.
And refused to leave.
3
The flower shop made it worse.
Of course it did.
The bell chimed.
Sofia looked up.
Then immediately frowned.
"You've been thinking."
"...is that visible?"
"Unfortunately."
Fabian looked up from his notebook.
Interested.
Larius folded his arms.
"How long?"
Sofia blinked.
"...what?"
"Flowers."
Pause.
Then:
"How long?"
Sofia laughed.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A serious one."
She thought for a second.
"Twenty-six years."
Silence.
Larius stared.
"...what?"
"Twenty-six."
She shrugged.
"I started helping my father when I was young."
The flower shop suddenly changed.
The shelves.
The arrangements.
The way she watered plants.
The way she touched leaves.
The way she immediately noticed problems.
Twenty-six years.
Not talent.
Time.
Or maybe both.
He couldn't tell.
Fabian wrote something.
Then pushed the notebook forward.
"Mom talks to flowers."
Sofia sighed.
"I do not."
Fabian looked unconvinced.
Larius stared at the notebook.
Then at Sofia.
Then back.
"...do you?"
"Get out."
Fabian laughed silently.
4
That night he made another mistake.
A stupid one.
He overwatered the lily.
Again.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He noticed immediately.
Then sat there staring at the pot.
Disappointed.
Mostly in himself.
Because he knew better now.
Yet he still did it.
The thought lingered.
Then another one followed.
How many flowers had Sofia killed?
The question startled him.
Because he had never considered it.
Twenty-six years.
Surely not all successful.
How many failures?
How many dead plants?
How many mistakes repeated before becoming instinct?
The thought fascinated him.
For reasons he didn't fully understand.
5
Saturday's security shift brought another example.
The building maintenance worker was fixing a door sensor.
Larius watched while eating lunch.
The man looked at the panel.
Touched two wires.
Adjusted something.
Done.
Less than a minute.
Larius stared.
"...that's it?"
The worker looked up.
"Yup."
"How did you know?"
The man shrugged.
"Seen it before."
Silence.
"...how many times?"
The worker laughed.
"Probably hundreds."
Hundreds.
The number echoed strangely.
Hundreds.
Not brilliance.
Repetition.
Again.
The same answer.
Again.
6
The notebook looked different that night.
Less emotional.
More curious.
Larius sat by the window.
The lily remained invisible.
Naturally.
He opened to a blank page.
Then wrote:
How many failures make something look effortless?
Below it:
Mary - 20+ years
Marcus - 10+ years
Sofia - 26 years
Maintenance worker - hundreds of repairs
He stared at the list.
Then added:
Fabian - 10 years learning sign language
That one made him pause.
Because Fabian wasn't talented at signing.
Fabian signed because it was his language.
The difference felt important somehow.
He just didn't understand why yet.
The city outside glowed softly through the window.
Cars moved.
Sirens echoed far away.
People worked night shifts.
Restaurants closed.
Street cleaners passed.
Los Angeles suddenly felt larger.
Not because of buildings.
Because of years.
Millions of accumulated years.
Skills.
Trades.
Professions.
Mistakes.
Entire lives stacked on top of each other.
Larius looked down at the notebook again.
Then at the lily.
Then at his training schedule.
Then at his work shifts.
Then at the sign language notes Fabian had helped him scribble.
Everything suddenly looked...
small.
Not meaningless.
Young.
Like beginnings.
And for some reason—
that didn't discourage him.
It irritated him.
But it also fascinated him.
Because for the first time he found himself wondering:
Not how good somebody was.
But how many times they had failed before he met them.
The thought stayed with him long after he turned off the lights.
And somewhere beneath the soil—
the lily continued growing in complete darkness.
Exactly the way roots always did.