The light returns.
So does the warmth.
So does the quiet.
But it's not the same.
Something has changed.
Not inside me—this time, it's the soil.
It's subtle, at first.
A shift in scent, not through smell, but through root-feel.
The way moisture bends, or how a grain of earth resists being touched.
Somewhere nearby, just beyond my current reach—
the soil is wrong.
I try to ignore it at first.
Focus on my vine.
On the softness of moss or the stillness of stone.
But the pull is there.
The instinct.
The quiet system hum that rises when something unknown sits too long in silence.
So I extend.
A cautious thread of vine.
Further.
Wider.
My root twitches against a patch of soil that feels…
hollow.
Not empty.
Not dry.
But empty of life.
As if something passed through this space, and the earth remembers.
⊹ Passive Trait Response: Root Whisperer (Dormant Potential Detected) ⊹
Fungal Trace Identified…
Rot Signature: Low-Level
Origin: Unknown
Spread: Dormant
Rot?
The word strikes something deep in me.
A pang, a reflex—like flinching from heat I can't see.
I don't know what rot is.
But my roots do.
They recoil, just slightly.
And I listen.
Nothing moves there now.
Not truly.
But something was there.
And the soil has not yet healed.
I retreat.
My vine curls back into my moss-soft chamber.
The system falls silent again.
But I don't forget.
This place…
Even in the stillness, it is hungry.