It is her. The creator of this place.

  I try to speak. To say that I did not touch anything. That I like this place. But my body does not respond. I feel like I am drowning from the inside.

  My legs tense on their own. My breathing locks up. The pressure rises.

  Then she stops watering.

  The constraint vanishes at once. The stream she was using was too wide and too powerful. Nothing like simple watering.

  I have only one option to calm the situation.

  “Sorry.”

  My voice is still trembling. My hands too.

  “Do not worry… I did not do anything weird.”

  I swallow, then add more quietly, almost too quickly:

  “I like this place. I think it is very pretty.”

  The flower on my forehead slowly withers. It folds in on itself, wilts, then detaches and falls into the damp grass. It was red.

  She waters me again.

  But this time, the stream is different, thin and controlled. The water flows in steady threads and the sensation changes immediately. My energy stops dissipating. It comes back slowly. My body loosens and the heaviness fades.

  She stops. Takes a step back. Then turns away without a word to resume watering her flowers.

  I use this respite to get fully dressed again. My movements are slow, cautious. My breathing is still short. I watch her work while keeping my distance.

  Her movements are precise, almost silent. She never waters two flowers the same way. Some receive more water, others almost none. Each motion is adjusted and deliberate.

  She throws me a brief glance. A shiver runs down my spine. Then, without a word, she holds out the watering can to me. I stay still for a second. My fingers hesitate. Then I step forward and take it.

  I start watering. The water flows calmly. Afraid of doing it wrong, I apply a bit too much force. My footing tightens, my wrist tenses without me noticing.

  She snatches the watering can from my hands and waters me violently. I clench my teeth to keep from wavering.

  She speaks calmly.

  “That is what a flower feels when you water it too much.”

  She stops, then hands me the watering can again.

  My body is numb, heavy, still threaded with remnants of pressure. But I take it back.

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  This time, I am careful. I water gently. A little here. A little there. I adjust my pressure. I slow down. I observe. I sometimes glance sideways, looking for a sign, a correction, a reaction.

  There is none.

  So I reduce it further. I take fewer risks. Each flower receives just what it needs. No more. My breathing gradually syncs with my movements. The garden stops weighing on me.

  She extends her hand. I give the watering can back to her.

  She occasionally completes my motion, almost without me realizing it. A minimal correction, a tilt of the wrist, an adjustment so slight it feels more like a suggestion than an instruction. Nothing is abrupt. Nothing interrupts the rhythm.

  We continue like this for a long time. I act, she adjusts, then, little by little, she barely intervenes at all. My movements grow more confident. The watering can no longer trembles in my fingers. The water falls where it should, neither too fast nor too strong.

  At one point, I water a flower. I finish, then instinctively wait for her to pass behind me.

  But she does not.

  I freeze, surprised, fingers still closed around the watering can. My gaze stays fixed on the flower, attentive, almost anxious. It stands straight and alive. Nothing bends. Nothing spills over.

  I finally speak.

  “What is your name?”

  She does not look at me right away. She adjusts another stem, then answers directly, as if it were obvious.

  “Rose.”

  Her voice is dry, direct, but not aggressive.

  I nod.

  “My name is Heyo. Nice to meet you.”

  She lifts her eyes toward me. Her green gaze is dense. Then she answers simply.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I hand the watering can back to her without comment, with the same calm she taught me.

  We continue tending the garden in silence. I help when she hands me a tool. I stop when she says nothing. The gestures follow one another naturally, without orders given, without expectations voiced.

  Time passes without me noticing. Then a voice breaks the balance.

  “I see you have met.”

  Celia has returned. Unchanged. Her presence cuts through the softness of the garden without being brutal. Her gaze briefly moves from Rose to me, like a quick check, then she resumes in a neutral, professional tone.

  “Unfortunately, Heyo, it is time to return to your cell.”

  She hands me the headset, then the blindfold.

  “Put these on.”

  The sentence affects me more than I expected.

  I had not forgotten where I was. I knew perfectly well what this place represented, what I represented here. Yet for a brief moment, I had stopped feeling it. The garden, the repeated gestures had almost managed to make me forget.

  I take the headset, then the blindfold. I do not dare look at Rose. A strange discomfort tightens my chest, dull and inexplicable, as if I had naively believed I could be something other than a detainee under surveillance.

  I turn my back without a word.

  Just before the headset isolates me completely, her voice rises behind me. Devoid of any unnecessary emotion.

  “See you soon.”

  I turn around.

  She has already turned away. She is tending to her flowers with the same care as before, as if nothing had happened. As if this moment did not need to be prolonged to have existed.

  The world disappears. And I head back to my cell. The door closes behind me. I sit on the bed without thinking. I replay the last hours effortlessly. The coliseum. The garden. Celia. Rose.

  Then I go further. The last days return as well. Kairo. Topi. Mato. The fight against Evra. I remember it clearly. Every scene is there, intact.

  Then… nothing.

  No face. No voice. Not even a blur. Just a clean, invisible boundary I cannot cross. And yet, one image refuses to leave me. A garden. A child. A gentle voice. A story about a yellow chrysalis. A strange sensation runs through my body. My chest tightens for no clear reason. I feel tears rising, slow and silent. I close my eyes. And I fall asleep.