040 — The Quiet Architect | Talon Z. Gray

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No one will notice the seeds tucked into the soil by the big beautiful wall.

It’ll slip right past them.

A concrete wall. This border.
Sterile. Impossible to scale.

But I come each day for a single thin line of vibrant green moss,
Cultivating it in a hairline crack at the very base of this wall.

It runs for miles.

Eventually, we’ll eat through.

They watch the gates. They scan the sky.
Never once do they look down.

This rebellion is not a hammer striking fire—
It is a single drop of water carried each day.

Our nurtured culture.
An everlasting hope in a place where it was never meant to exist.

It will not destroy this wall.

But it proves the wall is not omnipotent.
It is local.
It is mortal.

And to thicken the plot, I have a simple, elegant design for a sturdy footbridge.
Scavenged wood. Woven vines.

It’s drawn up completely—
A structure to cross dangerous, impassable ravines.

It hasn’t been built yet.

But I’ve rolled up copies of the blueprint
And hidden them in hollow trees for others to find.

The plan must survive,
Even if the architect does not.

I am not building a structure.
I am building the idea of a structure.

I’m leaving behind the key,
Not the door.

If a bet on the future—
It will be here,
And better than before.

Our barren landscape,
Where the only water comes from rusty government spigots,
I have mapped a secret path, separate from the thought police:

A hidden spring that bleeds clean, fresh water.

I won’t say too much.
Monuments will not clarify its purity.

Call attention to it,
And they will dry the well.

The system provides its grey, recycled water to all.
Murky. Metallic.
For your own good, they say.

But beneath their feet,
The sweet water still runs.

The only task:
Keep it from clogging with their dust.

It makes the hair on my neck rise.
Goosebumps ripple across my skin.

A secret source of nourishment,
And they are blind to it.

Victory by subtlety.