Kane couldn't sleep the night the storm passed through him. The silence in the house felt different now — not the kind that lulls you into rest, but the kind that demands you listen. He lay awake, his eyes fixed on the wooden beams of the ceiling above his bed, replaying the images of the forest and the weight of the storm that had settled in his chest and then released him.
By morning, his body felt tired, but his spirit lighter. Yet something remained — a question, perhaps, or a pull from beneath his feet. For the first time, Kane became aware not of what was around him, but of what was under him. The ground. The soil. The earth that had always been there, silently holding him.
He stepped outside, barefoot. The dew-covered grass greeted him like a thousand whispers, cool and soft. He walked slowly into the backyard, to the patch of land where his father always grew food, and stopped. This place had seen his tears. His hands had dug into this very soil when he had no words for his pain. Now, it was time to listen to what the ground had to say.
He dropped to his knees and placed both hands into the dirt. He didn't dig. He didn't pull or plant. He just rested them there. Still. The earth didn't move. It didn't shift. It simply held him — solid, patient, unmoving.
That was when Kane realized: everything begins here.
No matter the seed, no matter the storm, the ground remains the beginning. It is the place that accepts what we bury — whether it be hope, fear, failure, or longing. And it waits. Quietly. Unshaken.
Kane thought back to the countless times he had tried to run from himself. Times he had tried to hide behind his silence, to bury things he didn't understand. But the ground beneath him had always known. It had always accepted. It had always waited for him to return, when he was ready.
He remembered something his grandmother once said: "There is no growth without surrender. And there is no surrender without trust in the ground."
He had not understood her then. But now he did.
The ground — this constant, unseen force — was the keeper of all transformation. Before a tree could stand, before a flower could bloom, something had to be buried. And not everything buried was lost. Some things buried were just beginning.
He whispered to the soil, "I am not lost."
And he felt it — not in his ears, but deep in his body — the answer. No, child. You are taking root.
This chapter of Kane's life was not about rising. It was about grounding. He realized how important it was to know what you stand on before trying to reach for anything above. Dreams built on shaky ground don't last. Hope planted in shallow dirt dries up. But he… he wanted to last.
He stood up slowly, dusted off his hands, and looked down once more. This ground beneath him wasn't just dirt. It was a mirror. It reflected his need to feel supported, understood, and held. And it reminded him that to grow upward, one must first grow downward.
The rest of that day passed quietly. Kane went about his chores, helped his mother shell beans in the kitchen, and read part of an old book his grandfather had left behind — one with faded edges and pages that smelled of time. But something inside him had shifted.
For the first time, Kane stopped fearing stillness. He no longer felt the need to constantly move, to search, to run. He understood that sometimes, standing firm is the bravest thing you can do.
That night, just before sleep took him, Kane murmured to himself, "Let me be like the ground — quiet, strong, and ready."
And somewhere deep in his mind, or maybe even deeper — where thought and spirit meet — he heard it again:
You already are.