I do not reject it.
That is the second problem.
By the time I reach the garden, the air has shifted again, humidity wrapping around me as I step through the threshold, the scent of soil and water rising to meet me, grounding in a way the sterile corridors are not.
She is where I expect her to be.
Of course she is.
Kneeling in the same section, hands buried in the soil, fingers moving with careful precision as she works through another cluster of roots, her movements efficient, unhurried, entirely absorbed in the task at hand.
She does not look up immediately.
That, too, is deliberate.
“Lyria,” I say.
She finishes what she is doing before she responds, pressing the soil back into place, brushing her hands together as she rises.
“Sir.”
Her voice is even.
No change.
No adjustment.
“Walk.”
She doesn’t argue.
We move along the path, the damp stone cool beneath our feet, the air thick with moisture, the sound of water threading through the space in a constant, low rhythm.
“You identified a system inefficiency,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And you chose to act on it without authorization.”
“I chose to say something,” she replies. “What you did with it wasn’t my call.”
A deflection.
Not entirely.
“You understood the implication,” I say.
“I understood the plants were going to die,” she answers. “That seemed like a problem.”
I stop.
She stops with me.
“You do not think in terms of structure,” I say.
“I think in terms of outcomes,” she replies.
“And you believe that is sufficient.”
