The Deepest Soil

He worked in silence for most of the morning, the simple rhythm of the trowel a sufficient language. But a question, small and practical, began to form in his mind. He watched the woman for a time, her movements sure and economical, her knowledge of the earth apparent in every gesture.

He finally paused, resting his hands on his knees. “Where does the soil run deepest?” he asked. His voice was rough from disuse, the words simple and direct.

The woman stopped her own work and looked over, not with surprise, but with a quiet readiness. She pointed with her hoe to a spot a few feet to his left, where the earth was a slightly darker shade of black. “There,” she said, her voice as clear and unadorned as his own. “Against the old stones.”

He nodded, a silent thanks, and moved to the spot she had indicated. The trowel sank into the soil with a satisfying ease, the earth looser and richer than where he had been working before. He did not say anything more, and neither did she. The words had served their purpose, a small bridge built and crossed, and now there was just the work once more, the two of them tending their separate patches in a shared and quiet understanding.