Speaker 1: Welcome, dear friend, to this quiet corner of our shared world,
Speaker 1: and a profound thank you for choosing to rest your
Speaker 1: mind with us for a while. We have prepared for
Speaker 1: you a story spun from stillness and soft life, a
Speaker 1: gentle tale crafted with the simple hope of being a warm,
Speaker 1: comforting blanket for your thoughts, helping you to find that
Speaker 1: peaceful path towards slumber. If as you journey into the
Speaker 1: quiet earth with us, you feel a sense of gentle contentment,
Speaker 1: please do feel welcome to lend your support by liking
Speaker 1: this story and subscribing to our channel, and perhaps leaving
Speaker 1: a kind word before you drift away. Before we take
Speaker 1: our first steps into the subterranean world of the root Weavers,
Speaker 1: we shall first pause for a moment of shared breath,
Speaker 1: allowing the day to settle. Let us now find our
Speaker 1: way to true comfort, settling into our resting place, as
Speaker 1: if we were a well loved book being returned to
Speaker 1: a favorite, familiar shell. Feel the gentle support of your
Speaker 1: mattress and pillows, a soft and sturdy foundation that allows
Speaker 1: every part of you to feel held and wonderfully at ease.
Speaker 1: You might pull your blankets a little closer a soft
Speaker 1: cocoon of warmth, creating a small safe haven just for you.
Speaker 1: This is a time given wholly to piece a gentle
Speaker 1: pilgrimage with a day's busy thoughts can finally unfurl and
Speaker 1: drift away, inviting a quiet calm to settle in your heart,
Speaker 1: as deep and pervasive as the ancient silence held within
Speaker 1: the earth itself. Now, let us share a quiet breath together,
Speaker 1: like the slow, contented sire of the world settling for
Speaker 1: the night. Gently, slowly draw the air in through your nose,
Speaker 1: imagining it as a soft, silvery light, cool and clean
Speaker 1: fill in every small space within you with ease. Then release,
Speaker 1: just as softly through your mouth, a warm, quiet stream,
Speaker 1: carrying away any lingering tightness. With each slow, easy breath,
Speaker 1: you may feel your body softening, much like good fertile
Speaker 1: soil after a gentle rain, releasing any small knots of
Speaker 1: care you might have held. Imagine the clean, sweet fragrance
Speaker 1: damp earth, the faint papery scent of old leaves, and
Speaker 1: the grounding scents of things that have been growing peacefully
Speaker 1: for a very long time. Hushing the small, lingering noises
Speaker 1: of your day. If by a chance, your thoughts should
Speaker 1: begin to flutter like tiny mouths around us sat flight.
Speaker 1: That is perfectly all right, dear one. Simply notice them
Speaker 1: with a gentle kindness, as you might notice a leaf
Speaker 1: drifting down a slow current, and then guide your attention
Speaker 1: back to the steady, peaceful rhythm of your breath, or
Speaker 1: to the quiet comfort of my voice. There is nothing
Speaker 1: left for you to do now save for listening and
Speaker 1: allowing the story to be a gentle vessel, carrying you
Speaker 1: toward the deep and restorative rest that you so richly deserve.
Speaker 1: Feel the hearth Root's low, deep hum, a vibration that
Speaker 1: resonates with the very song of patience, gently coaxing your
Speaker 1: own body into a state of profound ease. Let us
Speaker 1: begin our quiet journey into the heart of the earth,
Speaker 1: where the slow almanacs are roof await to guide you
Speaker 1: into a serene and deeply peaceful sleep. Chapter one, The
Speaker 1: winding path downward. One would be quite mistaken to expect
Speaker 1: a grand entrance to a place of such quiet importance
Speaker 1: as the great Archive of the Root. There was no
Speaker 1: soaring archway, no daunting stare, but simply a low, wide
Speaker 1: door of pale, silvered wood, so smooth. It seemed to
Speaker 1: have been polished by centuries of gentle rain and passing breezes.
Speaker 1: Corn stood before it for a long moment, feeling the
Speaker 1: dazed travel and the hurriedness of the outside world began
Speaker 1: to fall away, much like a heavy cloak slipping from
Speaker 1: tired shoulders. A soft breath of air, cool and carrying
Speaker 1: the most curious and comforting scent of sweet damp earth,
Speaker 1: and something like old, well loved paper sighed from the
Speaker 1: subtle gap around the door frame, a gentle and wordless
Speaker 1: invitation to a place of profound quiet. It was, Corn thought,
Speaker 1: with a feeling of deep brightness, a smell that promised peace.
Speaker 1: With a light touch, the door swung inward without a sound,
Speaker 1: revealing not darkness but a soft, welcoming dimness. The path
Speaker 1: ahead sloped gently downward, not a tunnel dubbed from the
Speaker 1: hard earth, but a wide corridor whose floor was made
Speaker 1: of soil, packed so firmly and finally that it felt
Speaker 1: almost like thick felt beneath the soles of Corn's boots.
Speaker 1: It was a surface that seemed to absorb sound, for
Speaker 1: each footstep was but a soft, satisfying scuff, adding to
Speaker 1: the enveloping quiet. Here and there. Growing in small, soft
Speaker 1: clusters upon the curved earthen walls were patches of luminous fungi,
Speaker 1: each one casting a gentle purlssnes low that illuminated the
Speaker 1: way forward with a light as soft as a veiled star.
Speaker 1: The air itself seemed to grow warmer and calm with
Speaker 1: every step taken. It was a living stillness, a quiet
Speaker 1: that was not empty but full, rich with a hum
Speaker 1: of things groaning and resting in the demon Conn had
Speaker 1: known the quiet of open planes at twilight, and the
Speaker 1: hushed reverence of high lonely crag, but this was something
Speaker 1: else entirely. This was a quiet that felt ancient and kind,
Speaker 1: a silence that seemed to listen back, and with each
Speaker 1: descendant step, Corn felt a small, unknowable tension in their
Speaker 1: own chest begin to loosen, their breath, deepening and slowing
Speaker 1: all on its own, as if matching a rhythm that
Speaker 1: had been waiting here for a very long time. Along
Speaker 1: the walls, the first of the roots began to appear,
Speaker 1: thick and smooth as polished wood, weaving through the soil
Speaker 1: in slow, elegant curves. They were not gnarled or rough,
Speaker 1: but had a surface that invited the touch. Their colors
Speaker 1: ranging from the deep brown of rich loam to the
Speaker 1: pale cream of new shoots. They seemed to hum with
Speaker 1: a life that was deep and slow, a vitality that
Speaker 1: was palpable even from a distance. The purlescent light of
Speaker 1: the fungi caught on their smooth surfaces, creating shifting patterns
Speaker 1: that seemed to dance just at the edge of sight,
Speaker 1: a slow, silent ballet of light and shadow that was
Speaker 1: endlessly mesmerizing to watch. Corn paused, resting a hand for
Speaker 1: a moment against the earthen wall, feeling the faintest vibration
Speaker 1: traveling through it. It was a low, resonant hum, a
Speaker 1: thrumming so deep that was felt more in the bones
Speaker 1: of the hand and the center of the chest than
Speaker 1: it was heard by the ears. It felt like the
Speaker 1: contented purr of some great sleeping creature, a sound that
Speaker 1: spoke of utter safety and steadfastness. It seemed to pull
Speaker 1: the weariness from Koran's very marrow, replacing it with a
Speaker 1: sense of groundedness, a feeling of being connected to something immense, patient,
Speaker 1: and profoundly peaceful. It was the song of the deep earth,
Speaker 1: and it was a lullaby. The path continued its gentle
Speaker 1: winding descent, each turn revealing a new tableau of soft
Speaker 1: light and shadowed curves. The air grew richer, with the
Speaker 1: scent of warm loam and the faint, sweet perfume of
Speaker 1: unst roots and nourishing soil. Corn walked without any sense
Speaker 1: of urgency, feeling as if the journey itself was the destination,
Speaker 1: a slow and deliberate unwinding of the mind. The world outside,
Speaker 1: with its bright sun and shop noises and bustling pace,
Speaker 1: felt a lifetime away, a half remembered story from a
Speaker 1: different book. Altogether, Here there was only the soft path,
Speaker 1: the gentle glow, and the deep calming hung. Eventually, the
Speaker 1: curving corridor began to widen, the ceiling arching up into
Speaker 1: unseen shadows, and the gentle, purlescent glow of the fungi
Speaker 1: was joined by a new light ahead. It was a warm,
Speaker 1: steady radiance, the color of honey for the softest part
Speaker 1: of a candle's flame, and it spilled around a final
Speaker 1: wide bend in the path. With it came an even
Speaker 1: greater sense of warmth, a comforting heat that felt like
Speaker 1: stepping into the gentle sunshine of a perfect spring afternoon.
Speaker 1: Corn took a final slow breath at the cool, clean
Speaker 1: air of the passage before moving toward the light, feeling
Speaker 1: a quiet sense of arrival, a feeling of coming home
Speaker 1: to a place they had never been before. This new
Speaker 1: chamber was vast, far larger than Koran could have imagined,
Speaker 1: a great domed cavern whose distant ceiling was lost in
Speaker 1: a soft, impenetrable darkness. Yet the space felt not cavernous
Speaker 1: or empty, but full and deeply comforting. For its entirety
Speaker 1: was bathed in the warm, gentle light emanating from its center. There,
Speaker 1: growing from the very floor of the chamber was what
Speaker 1: could only be the sorts of the hume, the light,
Speaker 1: and the arkive's profound peace. The hearth Root. It was
Speaker 1: an impossibly ancient root, as thick as a small cottage.
Speaker 1: It surfaced a tapestry of smooth interwoven patterns, and from
Speaker 1: its very core it pulsed with a silent, radiant warmth,
Speaker 1: a living, breathing heart for this quiet, subterranean world. Chapter two,
Speaker 1: The hearth Root Chamber. The warmth from the hearth Root
Speaker 1: was a gentle, physical presence, a soft blanket of comfort
Speaker 1: that settled over corn skin and seemed to seep right
Speaker 1: through to the bone. It was not a heat that
Speaker 1: scorched or dried, but a living warmth that soothed, chasing
Speaker 1: away the last lingering chill of the world above. The
Speaker 1: light it cast was just as kind, a steady honey
Speaker 1: gold glow that softened every edge and filled the vast
Speaker 1: chamber with the peaceful ambience of a permanent, gentle sunset.
Speaker 1: All thoughts of the long journey fell away, replaced by
Speaker 1: a simple, profound sense of peace. This was a place
Speaker 1: one could rest in for a very, very long time.
Speaker 1: Near the base of the glowing root, a figure was kneeling,
Speaker 1: their attention wholly focused on a small, perfect patch of
Speaker 1: deep green moss. They were using a tiny rake carved
Speaker 1: from a single piece of pale smooth wood to gently
Speaker 1: arrange the strands of moss, an act of such patient,
Speaker 1: gentle care, it was mesmerizing to watch. As corn drew nearer,
Speaker 1: the figure looked up and their face, framed by soft,
Speaker 1: dark hair, broken to a slow card smile. This was Finn,
Speaker 1: the keeper of the archive. There was a quietness about them,
Speaker 1: serenity that seemed to be a part of the chamber itself,
Speaker 1: as if they too had grown here, nurtured by the
Speaker 1: same ancient peas. Finn rose with an unhurried grace, placing
Speaker 1: the small rake on a nearby ledge, and gestured for
Speaker 1: Corn to come and sit on a bench that was
Speaker 1: not built, but had been grown, a single smooth piece
Speaker 1: of roof that curved perfectly to offer a seat. Without
Speaker 1: a word, Fin offered Corn a simple ceramic mug, warm
Speaker 1: to the touch and filled with a dark, steaming broom.
Speaker 1: The aroma that rose from it was nutty and rich,
Speaker 1: a comforting scent of roasted chickory and something faintly sweet
Speaker 1: like toasted grain. Corn took the mug in both hands,
Speaker 1: letting its warmth spread through their fingers and palms, a
Speaker 1: small tangible anchor in the profound still of the chamber ah.
Speaker 1: They sat there together in a comfortable, shared silence, sipping
Speaker 1: the warm broom. The taste was as comforting as the aroma,
Speaker 1: earthy and wholesome, a flavor that seemed to speak of
Speaker 1: the good dark soil all around them. There was no
Speaker 1: need for questions, no need for the clatter of conversation
Speaker 1: to fill the air. The quiet itself was a form
Speaker 1: of communication. It spoke of welcome, of safety, of a
Speaker 1: shared understanding that here, in the presence of the hearth root,
Speaker 1: all that was needed was to simply be. The gentle,
Speaker 1: low hum of the great root was a constant, soothing
Speaker 1: undertone to the silence, a soft vibration that seemed to
Speaker 1: tune the heart to a slower, more peaceful rhythm. From
Speaker 1: this vantage point, Corn could see the true scale of
Speaker 1: the hearth root. Its base was immense wider than any
Speaker 1: tree Corn had ever seen, and its surface was not
Speaker 1: rough bark, but a smooth, intricate tapestry of interwoven strands,
Speaker 1: like countless threads of living wood spun together. The light
Speaker 1: it produced was not a surface effect. It seemed to
Speaker 1: shine from deep within, pulsing with a slow, steady beak,
Speaker 1: like a great sleeping heart. Its glow caught on the
Speaker 1: curved walls of the chamber, making the other smaller roots
Speaker 1: that lace the earthen walls seemed to ripple with soft
Speaker 1: golden light. After a time, Finn pointed a slender finger
Speaker 1: towards a section of the hearth root's base. There a
Speaker 1: new shoot, no thicker than Corn's thumb, was unfurling in
Speaker 1: a slow, almost imperceptible spiral. Its color was a pale, creamy,
Speaker 1: and it seemed even more translucent than the rest of
Speaker 1: the ancient root. It was a small, perfect thing, a
Speaker 1: testament to the quiet, unceasing life that permeated this place.
Speaker 1: Watching it was like watching time itself slowed down, each moment,
Speaker 1: stretching into a long, peaceful stillness. It was a lessened
Speaker 1: in patience, taught without a single word. The warmth of
Speaker 1: the chicory bruce spread through Corn's belly, a pleasant, gentle
Speaker 1: heat that mirrored the warmth of the chamber, A feeling
Speaker 1: of deep, RESTful contentment, settled in a sense that every
Speaker 1: part of the body was finally truly at ease. The shoulders,
Speaker 1: which had been unconsciously held tight for so long, softened
Speaker 1: and lowered. The breath flowed in and out, slow, and
Speaker 1: even without any conscious effort. It was the kind of
Speaker 1: deep relaxation one often seeks but rarely finds, and here
Speaker 1: it was offered as freely as the light in the
Speaker 1: warm air. As the last of the brewe was finished,
Speaker 1: Finn took the empty mug with another small, kind smile
Speaker 1: and gestured toward one of the many arched openings that
Speaker 1: led from the main chamber into the deeper parts of
Speaker 1: the archive. The gesture was unhurried, an invitation rather than
Speaker 1: a command. It promised more wonders, more quietude, more of
Speaker 1: the deep, restorative peace that this place held in such abundance.
Speaker 1: Corn rose from the bench, feeling lighter than they had
Speaker 1: in years, The body rested, and the mind blissfully, wonderfully,
Speaker 1: still ready to follow the keeper into the silent, waiting
Speaker 1: libraries of route. Chapter three, Learning the language of touch
Speaker 1: fin led the way from the great, warm chamber of
Speaker 1: the hearth Root into a smaller, connecting passage. Here, the
Speaker 1: golden light softened, mingling with the cooler, puralescent glow of
Speaker 1: the ever present lumen fungi, creating a gentle twilight ambiance.
Speaker 1: The air was cooler, too, yet still carried the comforting
Speaker 1: scent of clean earth and dry papery leaves. The walls
Speaker 1: of this corridor were a dense lattice of roots, ranging
Speaker 1: in thickness from a sturdy wrist to a delicate thread,
Speaker 1: each one smoothed to the sight and woven into a beautiful,
Speaker 1: complex tapestry of living wood. Fenn did not speak, for
Speaker 1: words were not the language of this place. Instead, they
Speaker 1: paused before a particular root, one as thick as corn's arm,
Speaker 1: the surface the color of pale honey and a texture
Speaker 1: that looked as smooth as water worn would. Fins simply
Speaker 1: placed a hand upon it, palm flat, and then looked
Speaker 1: to Coran, a quiet invitation in their eyes. There was
Speaker 1: no manual, no set of instructions. The only way to
Speaker 1: learn was to do, to feel, to listen with the
Speaker 1: skin corn feeling a sense of gentle anticipation mirrored the
Speaker 1: gesture placing their own hand beside Fens on the roots
Speaker 1: surprisingly warm surface. At first, there was only the sensation
Speaker 1: of the living wood itself. It was smooth, yes, but
Speaker 1: held a complex microtexture, a landscape of almost imperceptible ridges
Speaker 1: and valleys that told of its slow, inexorable growth through
Speaker 1: the soft earth. Beneath the surface, Koran could I feel
Speaker 1: a faint, slow pulse, the deep, unhurried heartbeat of the
Speaker 1: ancient tree living somewhere far, far above, in a world
Speaker 1: of sun and sky. It was a profoundly calming rhythm,
Speaker 1: a direct connection to a life lived on a scale
Speaker 1: of centuries. And Coran focused on that steady beat, letting
Speaker 1: it fill their awareness. Then, as Corn's mind quieted further,
Speaker 1: letting go of expectation, something new began to filter through.
Speaker 1: It was not a thought or an image, but a
Speaker 1: pure sensation, a memory held within the wood. It was
Speaker 1: the feeling of warm, gentle sunlight filtering through a canopy
Speaker 1: of broad green leaves dappling the forest floor far above.
Speaker 1: It was a feeling of deep contentment, of being nourished
Speaker 1: and safe. There was no story in the convention, no sense,
Speaker 1: no characters, no plot, only this profound, lingering feeling of
Speaker 1: a peaceful summer afternoon, a memory absorbed and held by
Speaker 1: the root for countless seasons. Corran drew in a slow breath,
Speaker 1: utterly captivated by this silent sensory language. Fenn guided them
Speaker 1: onward deeper into the archives, pausing now and then at
Speaker 1: other roots. Each one offered a different story, a unique
Speaker 1: tapestry of sensation. One, a dark, slender root, held the
Speaker 1: memory of a cool, gentle rain. Coran could feel the
Speaker 1: impression of soft droplets seeping slowly into the soil, a
Speaker 1: sense of thirst being quenched, a deep sighing relief. Another
Speaker 1: wider root with a reddish hue offered a feeling of
Speaker 1: crisp autumn air and the sensation of leaves letting go,
Speaker 1: drifting down in a slow, silent cascade. These were not
Speaker 1: dramatic events, but the simple, peaceful cycles of the world,
Speaker 1: preserved in perfect tactile tranquility. Korn began to understand that
Speaker 1: to read these archives was not an act of intellect,
Speaker 1: but one of surrender. It required letting go of the
Speaker 1: need to analyze or define, and instead to simply be
Speaker 1: opened to receive the gentle impressions as they came. The
Speaker 1: more Chorn relaxed, the clearer the sensations became. The process
Speaker 1: itself was a form of meditation, a deep and focused
Speaker 1: listening that quieted the constant chatter of the mind, replacing
Speaker 1: it with a direct sensory experience of peace and endurance.
Speaker 1: The stories of the Roots were stories of stillness, of patience,
Speaker 1: of the profound beauty in the slow, unchanging rhythms of nature.
Speaker 1: They came to a small circular chamber where a single,
Speaker 1: very old root spiraled down from the ceiling, its surface
Speaker 1: almost black and polished to a soft sheen by time.
Speaker 1: Fan gestured to it, indicating it was one of a
Speaker 1: special kind. Hesitantly, Goren reached out and laid the hand
Speaker 1: upon its ancient surface. The feeling that came from this
Speaker 1: one was different. It was not a memory of the
Speaker 1: weather or the seasons, but a deep, resonant feeling of connection,
Speaker 1: the faint, thrumming impression of all the other roots in
Speaker 1: the archive, a sense of a single, vast, leaping consciousness.
Speaker 1: It was the feeling of community, of belonging, of being
Speaker 1: one small part of a very large, very peaceful hole.
Speaker 1: A profound sense of awe and gratitude washed over Koran.
Speaker 1: This place was more than a library. It was a sanctuary,
Speaker 1: a living testament to the gentle, enduring power of the
Speaker 1: natural world. Each root was a verse in a long,
Speaker 1: slow poem about existence. To be here, to be allowed
Speaker 1: to feel these quiet stories, was a gift of immeasurable kindness.
Speaker 1: A small, contented smile touched Koran's lips, mirroring the one
Speaker 1: that so often graced fans. The language of the roots
Speaker 1: was becoming clearer now, and it spoke only of peace.
Speaker 1: Chapter four the Archives of scent and sound. As Koran's
Speaker 1: awareness continued to deepen, shifting from the busy world of
Speaker 1: thought to the quiet realm of the senses, the archive
Speaker 1: began to reveal its more subtle secrets. The journey with
Speaker 1: Fenn became less about guided touching and more about a
Speaker 1: slow mehandering exploration, an immersion into the very atmosphere of
Speaker 1: the place. Koran was learning that the stories were not
Speaker 1: just held within the tactile surface of the roots, but
Speaker 1: were also carried on the still quiet air. In a long,
Speaker 1: straight hall, where the roots ran in parallel lines, like
Speaker 1: shelves in a conventional library, a new layer of the
Speaker 1: Archive's language became apparent, the language of scent. Kran paused,
Speaker 1: closing their eyes and breathing in, slowly, deliberately. The ever
Speaker 1: present smell of damp, sweet earth was the foundation, but
Speaker 1: woven through it for countless other more delicate fragrances. Each
Speaker 1: root system seemed to exhale its own unique, faint perfume,
Speaker 1: a ghost of the life fitz Tree had lived. Corn
Speaker 1: leaned close to a pale, silvery root and could detect
Speaker 1: the clean, crisp scent of frost on a window morning,
Speaker 1: a smell so pure and cold it felt like breathing
Speaker 1: in starlight. Fen led them to another section, a small, warm, alcove,
Speaker 1: where a thick, reddish root coiled upon itself like a
Speaker 1: sleeping serpent. Here the air was different, again, filled with
Speaker 1: the most surprising and wonderful fragrance, the rich sweet scent
Speaker 1: of sun warmed berries, a memory of a bountiful summer
Speaker 1: from a century past. It was so vivid that corn
Speaker 1: could almost taste the sweetness on the tongue. This was
Speaker 1: not a library of dusty facts, but a living pantry
Speaker 1: of sensory memories, where one could breathe in the essence
Speaker 1: of a perfect day long since past. The journey continued
Speaker 1: into the deepest parts of the archive, places where the
Speaker 1: hum of the distant hearth root was only a faint,
Speaker 1: subliminal vibration. Here, in the profound choir, another layer of
Speaker 1: sensory information emerged. It was a sound so soft it
Speaker 1: was almost a feeling, a murmur that seemed to come
Speaker 1: from the roots themselves. Corn stood perfectly still in the
Speaker 1: center of a wide, low chamber, tilting their head to listen.
Speaker 1: It was like the sound of a thousand thousand leaves
Speaker 1: rustling in a gentle, faraway breeze, or the soft shushing
Speaker 1: of a distant sea. Yet there was no wind and
Speaker 1: no water here. Finn, seeing Conn's focused attention, simply smiled
Speaker 1: and placed a finger to their lips, then to their heart.
Speaker 1: The message was clear. This was a sound to be
Speaker 1: listened to, not with the ears, but with the whole body.
Speaker 1: Koran relaxed, letting the sound wash over and through them.
Speaker 1: It was the collective sigh of the roots, the audible
Speaker 1: ghost of their long, slow lives, the sound of millennia
Speaker 1: of patience. It was the most calming sound Korn had
Speaker 1: ever experienced, a sonic blanket that seemed to absorb any
Speaker 1: remaining flicker of unease, leaving behind only a state of deep,
Speaker 1: resonant peace. Korn spent what felt like a long, blissful
Speaker 1: time in that chamber, just breathing and listening. The constant,
Speaker 1: soft murmuring of the roots became a kind of anchor,
Speaker 1: a focal point for a meditative state. Thoughts arose, as
Speaker 1: they sometimes do, but they felt distant and unimportant, like
Speaker 1: its passing far overhead. They no longer held any power.
Speaker 1: The dominant reality was the gentle sound, the cool air,
Speaker 1: and the feeling of utter safety and tranquility. Corran felt
Speaker 1: their own inner world becoming as quiet and uncluttered as
Speaker 1: the chamber around them. In this state of heightened peaceful awareness,
Speaker 1: even the light seemed to carry information. The soft purlescent
Speaker 1: glow of the lumin fungi was not uniform. In some
Speaker 1: places it pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, in others
Speaker 1: it held a steady, unwavering light. Corn noticed that the
Speaker 1: fungi near roots that held memories of sunlight seemed to
Speaker 1: have a warmer, more golden tinge to their glow, while
Speaker 1: those near roots that remembered long cold winters had a silvery,
Speaker 1: almost bluish cast. The entire environment was a symphony of interconnected,
Speaker 1: gentle information, a world that spoke its stories through every
Speaker 1: possible sense. Fen led Koran to a place to rest,
Speaker 1: a wide flat ledge covered in a thick, cool blanket
Speaker 1: of the deepest green moss. It was softer than any mattress,
Speaker 1: yielding and supportive. Corn laid down, gazing up at the
Speaker 1: softly glowing fungi on the ceiling of the grotto. The
Speaker 1: gentle hum of the roots, the complex tapestry of peaceful sense,
Speaker 1: the soft visual pulse of the light. It all combined
Speaker 1: into a single overwhelming sensation of peace. It was a
Speaker 1: perfect harmony, a world designed for rest, and Kran felt
Speaker 1: a deep, profound gratitude for being allowed to experience it. Here,
Speaker 1: in the heart of the quieter earth, everything was beautifully,
Speaker 1: wonderfully simple. Chapter five a story grown within days or
Speaker 1: perhaps cycles of waking and gentle activity passed in the
Speaker 1: timeless peace of the archive. Corn no longer felt like
Speaker 1: a visitor, but rather a part of the quiet, living ecosystem.
Speaker 1: The rhythms of the world above, with its demanding clocks
Speaker 1: and sharp divisions of night and day, had faded into
Speaker 1: a soft, indistinct memory. Here, time was measured in the
Speaker 1: slow unfurling of a new shoot, or the gradual deepening
Speaker 1: of the chicory brew Fen would prepare. Corn now moved
Speaker 1: through the earthen halls with the same unhurried grace as
Speaker 1: the keeper, a quiet contentment settled deep within their spirit.
Speaker 1: One cycle, Fen led Corn to a new cavern, a
Speaker 1: nursery with the youngest, most tender roots were just beginning
Speaker 1: their long, slow journey. The air here was especially sweet,
Speaker 1: thick with the scent of new life and rich fertile soil.
Speaker 1: Finn handed Corn the small pale wooden rake and gestured
Speaker 1: toward a patch of earth where a tiny cream colored root,
Speaker 1: no bigger than a piece of yarn, was pushing its
Speaker 1: way through the lone. The task was simple, to gently
Speaker 1: clear the soil around it, giving its space to grow,
Speaker 1: an active, quiet service to the archive. Corn knelt on
Speaker 1: the soft earth, the handle of the rake smooth and
Speaker 1: warm in her hand. With slow, deliberate motions, they began
Speaker 1: to tend to the nascent root. It was a simple,
Speaker 1: repetitive task, yet it felt profoundly meaningful. Each gentle pull
Speaker 1: of the rate was an act of care, a small
Speaker 1: contribution to the great, slow story of this place. The
Speaker 1: work required no thought, only a gentle, focused presence. Coran's
Speaker 1: mind was blissfully wonderfully empty, focused only on the rich,
Speaker 1: dark soil and the precious, fragile life within it. As
Speaker 1: they worked, Coran's hand brushed against the tiny new root
Speaker 1: without thinking. They let their fingers rest there for a moment,
Speaker 1: closing their eyes as Fenn had first shown them. They
Speaker 1: expected to feel nothing, for what memory could such a
Speaker 1: young life hold. But a sensation did come, and it
Speaker 1: was a surprise. It was not a memory of sun
Speaker 1: or rain from the world above, nor the echo of
Speaker 1: a long ago season. The feeling that flowed into Corn's
Speaker 1: palm was one of the simple, profound peace. It was
Speaker 1: a feeling of being safe, of being warm, of being
Speaker 1: utterly content in the quiet, glowing darkness. And then, with
Speaker 1: a soft jolt of gentle recognition, Koran understood the story
Speaker 1: this root was telling. The feeling it held was not
Speaker 1: from the past. It was from the present. The peace,
Speaker 1: the safety, the warmth, it was Koran's own. The deep
Speaker 1: contentment that had settled in Koran's heart since arriving at
Speaker 1: the Archive had been absorbed by this new young life.
Speaker 1: They had become part of the Archive's story, their own
Speaker 1: quiet joy now woven into the fabric of a new beginning,
Speaker 1: a memory for a future keeper to perhaps one day feel.
Speaker 1: A smile of pure quiet happiness spread across Koran's face.
Speaker 1: There was no grand revelation, no sudden burst of light,
Speaker 1: only this gentle dawn understanding. The peace they had sought
Speaker 1: was not just something to be found in this place,
Speaker 1: but something to be cultivated and shared, given back to
Speaker 1: the very source that had offered it. The journey had
Speaker 1: not been about finding a sanctuary to hide in, but
Speaker 1: about becoming so filled with its peace that one could,
Speaker 1: in a small way, become a sanctuary oneself. Hey Later,
Speaker 1: Korin sat with Fenn on their usual bench by the
Speaker 1: Hearth route, sipping the warm, nutty brew. No words were
Speaker 1: exchanged about what had happened in the nursery, but as
Speaker 1: Finn looked at Koran, their smile was knowing and full
Speaker 1: of the deep, gentle warmth. The shared silence between them
Speaker 1: was richer, now imbued with a new layer of shared
Speaker 1: understanding and mutual appreciation. They were too quiet gardeners tending
Speaker 1: to the slow, beautiful stories of the earth. Corn leaned
Speaker 1: back against the smooth wood of the bench, Feeling the steady,
Speaker 1: calming home of the great root resonating through them. They
Speaker 1: gazed into its honey gold light, watching the soft, slow
Speaker 1: pulses that were now as familiar as their own heartbeat.
Speaker 1: A feeling of complete, utter rightness settled over them, a
Speaker 1: sense of having finally found their place, not on any
Speaker 1: map of the surface world, but deep within the quiet
Speaker 1: heart of things. The story of the archive would continue
Speaker 1: its slow, patient unfolding, and Corn, now a part of
Speaker 1: that story, was finally truly at peace. The tale did
Speaker 1: not end, so much as it softened into a long,
Speaker 1: RESTful pause, leaving the listener to drift on its quiet,
Speaker 1: peaceful Jewish Jewish.
Speaker 2: Later, don't you any Name speaking?
Speaker 1: The usually
Speaker 2: Up to