Galataea had not opened their eyes.
Below their feet rolled the tremors of earthworms as soil passed through them, decay entering one end and nutrients bursting from the other. Ants scuttled by the millions, negotiating the labyrinth in single file, back and forth, with hunters carrying supplies and workers carving new paths on their behalf.
The figure raked their toes through the grass and pulled it into bunches, then shivered at the sensation. Between the blades plants did battle in slow time, inching through days while birds, beetles and insects collected their due. The green drew strength from the sun, moisture from below, and reached up to bow for the breeze running them by.
Galataea smiled and arched their shoulders. The midday warmth baked their skin while the flesh cast in shade pimpled at the cool tickle of the elements. What ozone that lingered under the canopy of smog jutted into their nostrils, while birds close by and the distant roaring of artificial beasts clashed in concert.
Every tooth shone from their smile as Galataea opened their eyes for the first time.
Words spilled from their mouth, though most would not understand. In a language unique to them Galataea remarked “this life is beautiful.”