The rain stopped. Not with a pause, but with an abrupt, deafening silence. The water stretched to the horizon, a flat, brown, motionless sea under a sky of bruised and tattered clouds. All that remained of the world were the highest hilltops, like the heads of drowning giants.
On one such hill, the survivors of Ur and Lulal's camp huddled together, a single, shivering mass of humanity. The distinctions of gardener and defier were washed away. They were simply cold, hungry, and alive.
Enki stood apart from them, on a rocky outcrop, looking out over the void. He was alone now, truly alone. The King, the Builder. The other Pioneers were distant, silent powers. The weight of solitude was heavier than the sky.
He had done it. He had witnessed the end. The garden was gone. His mother was gone. His student was broken. His purpose felt like a ghost in his chest.
He looked down at the small, oilskin pouch at his belt. The seeds. The ark was secure. The memory of life was preserved.
He had saved the pieces. But as he stared into the vast, indifferent water, he had no idea how, or if, he could ever put them back together again. The Scrapbook of Grace was closed, its pages soaked and heavy, and he was alone with the weight of it under the empty sky.