The journey west was not a walk of healing. It was a walk of witnessing.
Solan moved through the lands he had helped mend. The staff felt different in his hand. The four woods—Ash, Birch, Oak, Willow—no longer pulled in different directions. They hummed in unison. A single, steady note. Like a heartbeat that had found its rhythm.
He passed through the fields first. The grass was tall. Golden. It waved as he passed. Not because of the wind. Because the Earth knew him.
You are returning, the grass whispered.
I am, Solan thought.
Why? the grass asked. The work... is not done.
The Earth says it is, Solan thought.
The Earth... is polite, the grass said. It always wants more.
Solan smiled. He stopped. He knelt. He placed his hand on the soil. It was warm. Dark. Rich. He closed his eyes.
