The sun hung gently overhead, not too harsh, softened by a few passing clouds. A light breeze carried the scent of dry grass and turned soil.
Artur knelt near a stubborn root, hands covered in soil, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He didn't say much, but he worked with focus—measured, deliberate, like each motion was a step toward feeling whole again.
Mark crouched beside him, tossing weeds into a basket, his eyes occasionally drifting to Artur, watching him—not intrusively, just… quietly.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It had settled over time, becoming something that spoke even without words.
"You've gotten faster," Mark said eventually, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
Artur didn't glance up, but a flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips.
"You've gotten softer."
Mark let out a breath of a laugh.
"Takes a village."
Artur sat back on his heels, brushing his hands off with a sigh. He looked out over the field—rows stretching, quiet and alive.
