The rain had passed, but its mark remained everywhere.
Puddles glistened like scattered mirrors across the village. The trees, heavy with water, dripped slowly onto the darkened earth, and the air smelled of damp clay and crushed herbs—the breath of a world reborn.
At dawn, the bell-beaters walked the village paths, striking soft tones from hollow gourds. Three notes, low and rhythmic.
Charlisa stirred beneath her woven blanket, still warm from Kael's arms. He was already sitting up, brushing water from his tunic, a quiet reverence in his movements.
"It's today," he said softly. "The Ceremony of Soft Earth."
She sat up slowly, confused. "You mentioned it once... but what is it, really?"
He turned to her, his expression unreadable—part joy, part gravity.
"It's the oldest of our rites. It can only happen once the first rain softens the earth. We give thanks to the soil, mark the memory of those we've lost, and ask the land to carry us into another year."
Charlisa dressed in silence, letting the meaning settle.
---
The entire village gathered in the central clearing, which had been transformed overnight. Wet leaves were pressed into spiral patterns along the ground. Clay bowls filled with herbs, ash, seeds, and colored dust sat at the corners of a large circle traced in charcoal.
Matriarch Yelara stood at the center, flanked by elders with white-painted hands. Her robe was made of moss-dyed fiber, adorned with dried flowers and bird bones. At her feet lay a slab of polished stone, slick with rainwater.
Charlisa stood beside Kael, just outside the ritual line. The morning was cool and damp, but the air felt sacred—expectant.
Yelara lifted her arms, her voice a quiet murmur that gradually filled the space.
> "Soft is the earth now, as are our hearts. We return what we took— Ashes, sweat, silence. We give it our grief. We give it our hope. And in return, the earth shall remember us."
One by one, villagers stepped forward and pressed their palms into the soil, leaving handprints around the spiral paths. Some whispered names of the dead. Others cried silently, letting the soft earth absorb their sorrow.
When it was Kael's turn, he looked to Charlisa.
"Would you press yours with me?"
She nodded, touched beyond words.
Together, they knelt at the edge of the circle and pressed their hands into the damp earth—his large and warm, hers small and trembling, side by side. The soil embraced their fingers, cool and giving. A shared breath passed between them as if the land itself had recognized their bond.
Then came the seeding.
Children carried tiny pouches filled with millet, moss spores, and blueroot seeds. They poured the contents into the spiral grooves, which would grow in the coming weeks—symbols of how even brief touches left behind life.
The ceremony ended in complete silence, broken only by the sound of roots awakening beneath their feet.
---
Later that evening, as the fire pits were lit and the smell of steamed grain filled the air, Charlisa sat with her back against Kael's chest beneath a newly sprouted tree. The mud from the ceremony still lined her palms.
"I never thought soil could feel like memory," she whispered.
Kael kissed her hair.
"Here, it is both grave and cradle."
Charlisa leaned into him, watching the last light of day fall over the handprints in the earth—a quiet promise that the village remembered, healed, and grew together