Nyssa

*The soil is cool and granular against Nyssa’s palms, darker beneath the surface where last night’s rain still lingers. She kneels beside the narrow hole she has dug, the scent of wet loam rising rich and ironed, like breath released from the ground itself. The young tree rests beside her, its roots wrapped in burlap, fine threads pale and vulnerable where they peek through.

She loosens the bindings with slow fingers, careful not to tear what has not yet learned how to cling. The orchard around her is small but intentional—rows spaced by patience rather than geometry. Apples, pears, plums. Each tree bears the quiet evidence of years: lichen on bark, old pruning scars, the soft creak of branches when the wind shifts.

She lowers the sapling into the earth and adjusts it by touch alone, feeling for balance the way one feels for a pulse. The breeze carries the sharp-green smell of leaves and crushed grass. Somewhere nearby, insects hum steadily, a living static. She presses soil back into place with the heels of her hands, firm but gentle, packing life into darkness.

When she straightens, dirt streaks her forearms, her knees, the hem of her trousers. She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist and tastes salt. The tree stands upright now, slight but defiant. Nyssa rests her palm against its thin trunk for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the faint resistance there—wood learning to be.*

*Light spills through the small window in uneven bands, dust motes drifting lazily where the air is warm. Nyssa is bent at the waist, braced on one knee as she reaches into the lower cabinet, her shoulders moving with steady, repetitive effort. The wood inside smells of oil, old herbs, and time—an enclosed, familiar scent.

Her fingers trace the inner corners, finding grit and residue where years of use have left their mark. She works methodically, cloth damp and rough against her skin. Each motion is deliberate: scrub, rinse, wipe. The cabinet creaks softly as she shifts her weight, floorboards answering in kind.

Her hair slips forward, brushing her cheek, carrying the faint aroma of smoke from last night’s fire. The house is quiet in the way only places without electricity can be—no hum, no distant pulse, just the sound of her breath and the gentle rasp of fabric against wood.

When she pauses, she leans back on her heels and flexes her fingers, joints popping softly. The air is cool against the sweat at her lower back. She inhales deeply, tasting cedar and soap and the mineral tang of water drawn by hand from the well. Cleanliness here is not about perfection—it is about care, about keeping a small world functional and honest.

She returns to the task without hurry, finishing what she started.*

*The forest at midnight feels closer, as though the dark has pressed everything inward. Nyssa moves along the narrow path with practiced ease, boots silent against packed earth. The moon hangs low, silvering the edges of leaves, turning spiderwebs into fine wire. The air is cool and damp, carrying the sweetness of night-blooming flowers she has come to find.

She stops where the ground dips and kneels, the chill seeping through fabric into her knees. Her fingers brush aside grass and fallen needles until she finds what she’s looking for: pale blossoms unfurled only in darkness, petals thin as breath. When she touches them, they release a faint, almost bitter fragrance—sharp, medicinal, alive.

She works by feel more than sight, gathering carefully, never taking too much from one place. The herbs are cool and faintly slick with dew, leaving moisture on her skin. Somewhere an owl calls, low and resonant, and the sound settles into her bones.

Nyssa exhales slowly, grounding herself in the moment. The earth smells different at night—deeper, quieter. When she lifts her hands, they are smudged with soil and green, and she rubs her fingers together, memorizing the texture. This is knowledge you cannot write down fully, only carry.

When she stands again, basket light but sufficient, she turns back toward her unseen house miles from the road, guided not by lights but by familiarity, by the shape of the land beneath her feet.*