The space returns.
The pressure releases.
The garden breathes again.
She exhales slowly, and this time I hear it.
“You’re not going to hit me,” she says, and it is not a question.
I look at her.
“No.”
Another admission.
Another deviation.
“Why,” she asks.
The same question. Different angle. Same problem.
The answer forms.
I reject it.
I do not have one that maintains the structure I require.
“That is not relevant,” I say.
“It is to me.”
I turn abruptly, the movement cutting through the space cleanly, ending the interaction before it extends further into territory I have not defined.
“Return to your work.”
My voice is controlled again, structured, command.
“Yes, sir,” she replies.
But I hear the difference.
She is not resolved.
And neither is this.
I walk, the garden receding behind me, the scent of soil fading into sterile air, but the transition does nothing to settle what has shifted. I do not slow. I do not stop. The realization follows anyway, precise and unavoidable, locking into place with a clarity that does not allow reinterpretation.
I had the opportunity to eliminate the variable.
I chose not to.
And I do not know why.
11
LYRIA
The garden doesn’t forget.
