Aster knelt in the dirt. The soil was damp, thick with decay, clinging to his fingers as he sifted through it, pressing it between his palms, feeling the weight of its history. The morning was still cool, but the air was already dense with the scent of wet leaves, rotting stems, and roots long dissolved into the earth. Mist clung low to the ground, dissipating where the sunlight broke through the canopy.

He moved methodically, stepping between rows, his boots pressing shallow indentations into the soft ground. The plants trembled at his presence, their thin stalks adjusting, their leaves tilting in response to the shifting air. Climbing vines reached for their supports, tendrils curling instinctively, but their growth was hesitant, uncertain. A thick, looping strand had collapsed under its own weight, tangled in itself, pulling downward instead of rising. He traced its spiraling form with his fingertips, following the knots, the wasted effort, the places where it had veered too far from its best path.

Too slow.

Too inefficient.

He released the vine and moved on. A sapling stood alone, its trunk narrow, its branches thin. Its crown was too wide, its leaves too large for its fragile base. Droplets of condensation clung to its surface, their weight bowing it slightly, tipping it forward with the pull of gravity. Aster pressed his palm against the bark, testing it. The tree swayed beneath his touch, unsteady, its roots too shallow. A strong wind would take it.

Failure was always imminent; collapse forever certain.

He withdrew his hand and moved toward a cluster of plants growing too closely together. Their stems pressed against one another, their roots entwined beneath the soil, competing for the same narrow space. Some leaned into the sun, stretching, desperate, while others shrank in the shade, already giving way. One in particular, a sturdy green shoot with thick-veined leaves, was caught between two taller plants, struggling to reach the light. Its growth was stunted. Left where it was, it would never reach its full height.

Aster knelt, gripping the base of the plant gently. He pulled, steady and deliberate, loosening the roots from the packed earth. Soil clung to them, but the plant came free without resistance. He carried it to a more open patch of ground near the trellis, where there was space, where it could stretch unhindered. He pressed his fingers into the dirt, hollowing out a new place for it, then set it carefully within, covering the roots, patting the soil firm around its base.

It would grow faster here.

It would reach further.

Aster straightened and stepped back. The plant stood motionless at first, adjusting, as if uncertain of its new placement. Then, almost imperceptibly, the leaves shifted toward the sun.

He turned away, stepping toward the edge of the garden where the compost heap lay in a dark mound. A withered stalk, brittle and yellowed, caught his eye. Its stem had dried, its roots had shriveled. It would not recover. Aster reached down and pulled it from the soil, shaking loose the last clumps of earth still clinging to its base. It had no weight to it, no resistance.

Useless.

He turned it once in his hands, then tossed it into the heap. It landed soundlessly among the broken stems, the softened remains of what had once been thriving. The pile steamed faintly, decomposition already at work. Nothing truly disappeared. The dead fueled the living.

But it was an unnecessary process.

Aster knelt again, pressing his hands into the earth. Beneath his fingertips, past the surface, past the scattered fragments of rot, he felt the weight of the past pressing upward, feeding the present. It did not have to be this way. Growth should not rely on failure. It should not depend on waste. It should be continuous, unbroken.

Each could be boundless.

The wind shifted. The taller stalks swayed. The younger shoots trembled. The sun climbed higher, warming the leaves.

Aster stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.