He checked the pots when he came in from digging. They'd need a good, deep hole for the transplant. Set down some serious roots.
The first pot contained a chip of glass and nothing more. The second, a twist of wire. Both sat stubbornly unchanged in their rich loam. The third pot, however, brought a smile to his sweat-stained face. The chip of concrete had swollen, grown rectangular. He could see the first budding partition of an internal wall.
Outside his crude hut, the trees loomed close, but he ignored them. The city would come back.
He'd plant it himself.
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
14 hours ago