"Good," Enki said. "Now, let's find the place for it."
They found a flat, clear spot of earth, the heart of where the new city would rise. Kidu moved to simply set the stone down, his old habit of haste taking over.
"Wait," Enki said, stilling him with a word. "Clear the ground for it. Make a bed. Let it know it is home."
Kidu paused, then knelt. He scraped away the pebbles and torn roots, his calloused hands moving with a new, deliberate care. He was not just digging; he was preparing. He made a smooth, level place, a perfect cradle in the earth. His movements were no longer just about speed and strength, but about intention.
When the cradle was ready, he lowered the stone into its place.
It settled with a soft, solid thud. It didn't wobble. It was perfectly, completely still.
Kidu looked at it. He had built things his whole life. He had lifted heavier rocks for walls that now lay at the bottom of the sea. But this was different. This felt less like work and more like a conversation. A quiet agreement between him and the stone.
He looked up at Enki.
The immortal man wasn't looking at the horizon or the sky for signs. He wasn't looking at the growing cluster of shelters. He was looking only at Kidu. And in his ancient eyes, there was no praise for a job well done. There was something else: a simple, quiet recognition. The look you give someone when you see them, truly see them, for the first time.
In that moment, Kidu didn't feel like a laborer. He felt like a creator.
The seed was in the ground.
The stone was in its place.
The work of rebirth had begun.