4338.208 · July 27, 2018 AD
Thirty Seeds, Three Hundred Metres
Chris has vanished. One moment he was crouched by the river, hands in the dirt—and now there's just dust and silence where he should be. Karen calls his name and hears nothing back. The panic is sharper than she expected. When he finally reappears, the relief doesn't quite settle. Something has shifted between them—something the soil seems to know before she does. They plant a trail. They mark a path. But not everything that grows here is green.
The river murmurs. The sun presses down. And Chris is gone.
Karen doesn't expect the fear to hit so hard—but it does. She calls his name into the emptiness, scanning the horizon for his shape, and finds only dust. When he finally emerges from behind a rocky outcrop, the explanation is absurdly mundane. But the relief that floods through her carries something else with it. Something harder to name.
They continue planting. Seed by seed, they trace a line through the terrain—coriander pushing up through red earth like small green flags of survival. The soil responds to everything here. Even the things no one wants to talk about. Wild tomatoes thrive near the latrine. Life, it seems, isn't picky about its origins.
Karen watches Chris work, notices the rawness of his hands, the way his focus narrows until the world outside it disappears. She kisses his blistered palm and feels something stir—not just affection, but longing. For closeness. For certainty. For answers this place refuses to give.
Thirty seeds. Three hundred metres. A map drawn in chlorophyll and hope.
And beneath it all, a question she can't shake: What if we're not fine?
