Prosperity woke early, before the Sun had opened his eyes and before the stars and Moon took their rest. He did this often. Urgency pressed beneath his ribs like a second heart, beating not for life but for motion, reminding him that stillness was waste and delay a form of loss. Today mattered. Admiration would arrive at first light, and Prosperity had already shaped the hours ahead of her, intent that she see what had been accomplished in so little time, that she would know him by what stood because of his hand.
He adored Admiration. Her form pleased the eye, yes, but more than that she answered a longing that had rooted itself deep within him, something neither taught nor chosen, but grown. Distraction would sometimes pass nearby, practiced and clever, tugging at him with intention, but Admiration did not pull. She drew. And so when they began their stroll through the village, Prosperity guided their conversation as one might guide a gaze, turning her attention toward the works that carried his mark most clearly.
The path they had once walked—no more than dirt then, clinging stubbornly to the gloss of their shoes—had been remade. Where dust had risen and settled without order, there was now a smooth grey laid with precision, holding itself firm, keeping chaos in check and granting polish to those who passed upon it. The empty fields that had once lingered along the path’s edge, wide and fallow, were now lined with structures the residents praised, living spaces Prosperity had provided, and in doing so claimed the privilege of necessity. And where trees and brush had gathered without invitation, there were now small squares paved with decorative stone, spaces disciplined into display—planters arranged to feature color and form, nature reduced to ornament, less distracting than what had grown there before.
Prosperity turned then, seeking Admiration’s smile.
But she did not give it.
Her eyes had wandered. Distraction passed nearby, scarcely noticed, but beyond him something else had drawn her sight—a figure weeping at a distance. Her gaze softened, stained with a quiet ache, and without words she found herself pulled toward Conservation’s space.
Conservation had always carried a softer heart than many cared to value. It was true—he and Prosperity had grown together, once shared the same wide desires, back when the fields stretched farther than sight and the village breathed easily beneath open sky. But time had narrowed those fields. The vision Prosperity still carried had not bent with the weight of bodies now pressing upon the land, and consequence, once slow to arrive, had gathered itself. To Prosperity, consequence had become inconsequential.
Perhaps he had forgotten the paths he once designed, when they were woven with intention. They had been lined with gravel then, laid so the earth beneath could catch its breath, hold it, release it in its time. Now that breath lay choked beneath unyielding surface. Rain, once welcomed, struck and was turned away, forced to gather itself in crowds and flee toward whatever space still showed mercy. Even the Sun had grown aggravated. With the ground sealed and darkened, he could no longer warm what lay below, and so he let his heat linger and rise, building his protest into the air itself, shouting his grievance to Prosperity. But the weight of that protest did not press where it once had.
Admiration, it seemed, was more given to balance than Prosperity had allowed. Emotion took her by the hand and placed her beside Conservation, who sat upon an old wooden bench at the edge of a small open ground, watching what had not yet been claimed. Before him, driven into the earth, stood a sign: Available Now. Call Prosperity for Additional Details. It was a Gravem indication—another held desire drawn from Conservation’s grasp.
He spoke then, sharing with Admiration the dream he had carried quietly for years: a space shaped not for conquest but for presence. Winding paths. Ground allowed to catch breath and give it back. Places for wandering without demand. A place where the Sun might be consoled and curb his temper, where Rain could replenish what lay below instead of being driven off. If Prosperity could yield.
Prosperity felt jealousy rise at Admiration’s response and moved toward them, intent on reclaiming her attention. But the sight of his childhood friend in tears struck him sharp. Something pricked beneath his ribs—not urgency now, but recognition. Words he would have once used failed him, and he stopped. He listened.
His heart missed its rhythm as the harm he had done began to take form before him, consequences long avoided stepping into sight. And as he listened, Alignment entered the space—not announced, not argued, but present. Prosperity saw then how this ground might be shaped differently, how development need not deepen wounds but could tend them. He saw a winding gravel path returning, one that slowed the walk and allowed the earth beneath to breathe again. He saw how time with Admiration need not be hurried, how his mark might be placed with care rather than force.
Empathy—rare in his design—touched him. He joined the conversation not to command it, but to share it. And as the three stood together, Conservation’s mouth lifted in a quiet, surprised smile.
Perhaps there was room still. Perhaps even Hope might pass through this place one day. And perhaps healing could return to the land that had existed long before either of them had learned to name their desires.
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