A man named Kidu stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered and quiet, with thick arms and a face etched by sun and sorrow. Enki led him to the riverbank, where the receding waters had left a scatter of stones, tossed and tumbled like the bones of the earth.
"We need a foundation," Enki said. "Not just any stone. The right one."
He picked up a rock, rough and jagged, and handed it to Kidu. "Close your eyes," Enki instructed. "Feel it. Does it feel... true?"
Kidu closed his eyes, skeptical. He felt the stone. It was just a rock.
"Don't think about the granary," Enki said softly, his voice a low murmur beside him. "Don't think about the future. Just feel the stone. Listen to it. Is it the one that wants to lie still and hold things up?"
Kidu felt foolish. But he tried, his calloused fingers reading the language of the rock. He felt the weight, the shape, the pitted texture. He put that one down and picked up another. And another. His hands moved blindly, discarding the restless and the brittle. Then his fingers settled on a large, flatter stone, its surface smoothed by ancient currents. It felt solid in a way that was hard to explain. It felt... patient. Grounded.
"This one," Kidu said, his eyes still closed, a certainty in his voice that hadn't been there before.