Enki knelt in the mud. He wasn't a historian. He wasn't a botanist from a dead world. He was a man with two hands.
He began to dig. Not with the calculated precision of an engineer, but with the raw, desperate need of a gardener. He cleared the muck, carving out a small, simple patch of earth.
Gilgamesh watched, confused. "What are you doing? We need to find survivors. We need to plan."
"This is the plan," Enki said, his voice firm for the first time since the flood. He reached into the oilskin pouch at his belt and took out a single, precious seed. One he had saved from Ur.
He placed it in the earth and covered it with mud.
It was not a grand gesture. It would not rebuild a city. But it was an act of creation. It was a defiant, quiet "no" to the stagnation that had killed two worlds.