He placed the seed within the mud, this tiny, defiant speck of potential, and covered it with a handful of wet, heavy clay. He stood, wiping the rich, dark earth onto his robe—a gesture of commitment.
"I am not planting for the tree," Enki said, his voice clear and certain, carrying over the desolate landscape to the hushed survivors. "I am not planting for a forest that will outlive the mountains. I am planting for the act itself. For the belief that to create is a sacred 'yes,' shouted into the silence of a universe that forever whispers 'no.' We do not build because things are eternal. We build because the act of building has meaning."
His gaze swept over them, no longer that of a distant witness, but of a focused gardener who had found his true work.
"Now," he said, his voice shifting into one of practical purpose. "Who here has hands that understand stone?"