Gilgamesh, the Mortal Witness, finally understood. He saw Enki not as a broken god, but as a man who had finally chosen to fight his nature. He picked up a digging stick of his own.
"Where do we plant the next one?" the demigod asked.
Enki looked at the demigod prince, the son of a tyrant, now asking to be a gardener. He looked at the single seed in the mud. It was the smallest, most fragile thing in the world.
It was also the only thing that could save it.
The story was the message. And the message had been received. The work of the new world would not be to build taller towers. It would be to plant deeper roots. One seed, one act of grace, at a time. The 6,000-year thesis was not a trial. It was an invitation to finally, truly, live.