The hum of the shuttle had faded, replaced by sound. Too much sound.
Sawl jolted upright, breath shallow, hands gripping the armrests. His uniform clung to his skin, damp with sweat. For a moment, the warm, pulsing and alive light of the dream still lingered behind his eyes.
Then…
"Osei, do you copy?"
The voice cut through the haze, sharp and real.
He blinked, adjusting to the gray-blue glow of the landing deck. The shuttle had touched down. Earth. The cradle of chaos. He was here, but something inside him had stayed behind. Or perhaps, had only just begun to follow.
"You're cleared for ground command. Upload complete," the officer's voice continued, unaware of the storm unfolding behind Sawl's eyes.
He stood, moving slowly. The light from the dream still flickered deep within his chest. Every step felt hollow, like echoes in a chamber not meant for footsteps.
When the hatch opened, Earth spilled in, dusty, raw, tangled with memory and noise. He stepped onto the surface, and the ground felt wrong. Not broken. Just, alive in a way Novaheim never had been.
Sawl moved through the base like a ghost. Briefings, data transfers, efficiency reports. He said what he needed to say, nodded when he was expected to. But his eyes kept drifting to the windows. To the wild green beyond the concrete.
He wasn't supposed to go there. Not yet. Not without clearance.
But something pulled him. Not duty. Not curiosity. Something softer. Something deeper.
He slipped away.
The gate to the botanical conservatory groaned as it opened. It hadn't been maintained well, overgrown with ivy and time. Inside, the garden had reclaimed itself. Vines curled around shattered paths. Trees reached through broken glass ceilings. And in the silence, something ancient stirred.
He stepped inside.
It wasn't like Novaheim's climate-controlled biotanks that were always perfect, sterile and lifeless. This place breathed.
He walked slowly, brushing his fingers across petals heavy with dew. The air smelled of damp earth and something else. It also smelt of something sweet and forgotten.
Birdsongs echoed through the air. Unscripted and Unprogrammed.
He stopped in front of a low stone bench. Carved into the backrest was a phrase:
"To know the garden is to remember the Gardener."
He sat down slowly. His heart was beating again, fast and fragile. He thought of the voice. The warmth. The words:
"You have always been seen. Always loved. Always held."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the garden felt like the dream. Still. Sacred.
A single white flower lay on the bench beside him. He hadn't noticed it before. It hadn't been there.
He picked it up.
Tied around the stem was a slip of parchment, folded neatly. No name. No symbol.
He opened it.
"The truth will bloom in silence, when you are no longer afraid to grow."
His breath caught.
Somewhere in the leaves above, wind stirred.
He didn't know who had written it. But he knew what it meant.
He wasn't alone.
And whatever had begun in that dream, it wasn't finished yet.