"To Tom, I think the soil here is more honest than we were

To Tom, I think the soil here is more honest than we were. It is day 214. The sun is a physical weight on the shoulders, and I’m sitting at the scarred table sketching a specimen of *Lianaceae* I found near the northern cliffs. The leaf is aggressive—waxy, uncompromising. It doesn't pretend. Back at the herbarium, we pressed things into flat books and forced them to be silent. But here, if a plant wants to survive, it fights. There’s no pretense. Kevin is trying to fix the shutter again; the metal clanging is grating on my nerves. I spent the morning looking at my grandmother’s tin of seeds. They’re still there, dormant and heavy. I’m still terrified to plant them. What if I put them in this earth and they fail? What if I waste the only thing I have left of her? The island doesn't care about my burnout, Tom. It doesn't care about the insomnia. I spent four hours mapping the mineral composition of the forest floor today. It is exhausting, but for the first time in years, I’m not hiding from the dirt. I want to be seen. I want to be the one who knows this place before the tide changes. We were complicated. This just is. Jenny