Uriel remained where he had settled, seated in the grass near the fourth tree.
His palms rested against the earth, not braced, not strained, simply placed there with a kind of listlessness.
The grass yielded beneath his hands in that patient, living way it had, as though it recognised contact without needing to react to it.
It bent, then held, cool against his skin, breathing in a rhythm so steady it almost felt like something you could listen to if you stayed long enough.
He had already taken stock of himself.
There was no confusion in him about what had happened. No missing detail.
The moment had been clear from beginning to end -- the turn, the hand, the absence of effort in the motion that followed.
The sensation of movement without consent. Stone giving way, not resisting, not even slowing him, just parting as if it had been waiting for instruction it never questioned.
Then the surreal return. The garden receiving him with the same quiet it offered everything else.
