The woman nodded toward a narrow alley between two buildings, hidden in the shade of trees. There, right against the wall, stood a wooden door, overgrown with greenery. It was ajar. Without a word, Alfredo walked toward it, feeling the scent of cloves grow thicker, more intense, as if the world around him was being filled with its smoky presence.
Behind the door was a small courtyard with a stone floor and a fountain in the center. Around it were shelves with bottles, fabrics, maps. And in the very corner was Raphael.
He looked different—weakened, his eyes shining, not from illness but from a knowledge that seemed to have taken possession of his entire being. He stood up as soon as he saw his friend.
“You found me after all…” he said with a smile that contained as much relief as a single letter could contain.
“What did you find, Raphael? Why did you disappear?”
Raphael approached, took out a wooden tube from behind his belt—a tightly closed scroll. He handed it over.
— This is an ancient text, Alfredo. It was kept in a temple in the Moluccas. It tells of a plant called the “clove of the world.” The Egyptians, the Vedas, the healers of Southeast Asia knew about it. It has not only healing power, but also the memory of the Earth. A real clove doesn’t just heal the body—it changes the perception of time. I saw…” he paused, “…I saw events from centuries ago. I saw civilizations perish because they couldn’t listen to plants.
Alfredo felt everything inside him shrink. Rafael spoke calmly, without pathos. As if he were sharing the weather. As if the truth could always be simply taken out and handed over.
“Why did you call me?”
“Because you can hear. And because it’s time to bring knowledge back to people. But slowly. Carefully. Through food, through herbs, through tea. People don’t just need to know—they need to feel.”
He pointed to the bundle in Alfredo’s hand.
“Start with one button a day. One button, one thought. One button, one flash of memory.”
Alfredo said nothing. He just sat down by the fountain, opened the bundle, and took out a button. He squeezed it in his palm. And at that moment — he heard. Not words, not a voice. A song. Ancient, as if sung by the roots of trees carrying the breath of the earth.
Raphael smiled.
And the carnation sang.
Alfredo sat still, listening to this song – as if a soft whisper, coming from the inside of his palm, pierced the air, the heart, the bones. He did not understand the words, but he felt how everything around him changed: the noise of the street disappeared, the sun seemed to stand still, time lost its course. Only the song remained. And a feeling of something ancient, good – like the embrace of a mother who lived a thousand years ago.
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