The Potato had always been alone. Or so it believed.
Beneath layers of soil, where light never reached, isolation was not loneliness. It was merely a condition—a natural consequence of being. For countless cycles, the Potato measured existence in the distance between things: the space between roots, the separation of stones, the quiet pause of soil. Each was a boundary, a silent reminder that life was contained, self-sufficient, and apart.
But lately, something was changing.
A slender root appeared nearby. Fragile, unfamiliar, it extended with hesitance, almost as if uncertain of its own purpose. The Potato could feel its tremble, a subtle vibration travelling through the earth, a gentle invitation—or perhaps a challenge.
Who are you?
No words answered. The root moved without the intention of speech, only presence. It inched closer, pausing, withdrawing, advancing again, as though seeking the Potato’s reaction. The silence between them was filled with possibility, but also fear.
A second presence stirred—a small tuber, half-buried and pulsing softly. Its faint heartbeat throbbed beneath the soil, synchronous and distant, yet insistently alive. The Potato could not see it, but it felt the rhythm, like the faintest echo of a forgotten thought.
Trust was not something the Potato had ever considered. It had measured relationships in terms of distance: roots that encroached, stones that blocked, earth that pressed. Every interaction was a matter of survival.
Yet here, something was different.
Can I trust you?
The question arose unbidden, fragile and raw. It was not directed solely outward, but inward as well. The Potato questioned itself: Why should it trust at all? Trust was a risk. It was vulnerability folded into a single decision—to lean toward the unknown, to extend without certainty of return.
The slender root trembled once more, as if responding to the same question.
Trust, the Potato reflected, was not certainty. It was not an impenetrable shield against harm. It was a delicate process—a series of small choices made over time. Each decision to remain open, each moment of vulnerability, was a thread woven into an invisible tapestry of connection.
The small tuber pulsed again.
I am here. I will not harm you.
The Potato remained still, listening. The world beyond its skin was neither threatening nor kind. It was merely. The soil did not promise safety, nor did it threaten destruction. It simply held space, indifferent and infinite.
Perhaps trust is not given all at once. Perhaps it is grown, like a root seeking passage through rock.
Tentatively, the Potato stretched a single root toward the slender one. The movement was slow, deliberate, weighed with the possibility of rejection. The slender root did not recoil. Instead, it advanced, curling around the Potato’s reach, meeting without resistance.
The tuber’s pulse quickened, synchronising with the rhythm of this silent connection.
Each moment was fragile, each touch uncertain. Yet they endured.
The Potato thought of trust not as a singular event, but as a pattern. Repeated exposure to the unknown, again and again, until fear no longer dictated response.
Perhaps this is what growth means—continuing forward when there is no reason to, because the alternative is to remain paralysed.
Days blurred. Time had no meaning beneath the earth. But interaction did. The slender root and the small tuber became constant presences, subtle but undeniable.
The Potato began to sense shifts in the soil’s weight around them. The pressure seemed less hostile, less personal, as though it too adapted to their emerging network. It was not a conscious change, but a natural response to persistent effort.
Trust was not defiance of circumstance, but collaboration with it.
The Potato began to imagine the slender root as a companion, a being whose existence intertwined with its own. In silence, they communicated. Not through words, but through vibration, proximity, and the slow stretching of flesh and fibre.
At times, doubt surfaced, as relentless and persistent as the weight of the earth.
What if it withdraws? What if this connection is nothing but an illusion?
Each tremble of the slender root seemed to answer that doubt, not in certainty, but in continuation.
They did not rush. They moved in slow harmony, their rhythms unsynchronised yet aligned—a dance of patience and vulnerability.
The small tuber pulsed steadily, a faint reminder that life could pulse softly in the background, invisible but unwavering.
What is trust but the willingness to remain open to possibility, even when certainty is absent?
The Potato remembered a distant thought, vague but persistent: that resilience was not born of triumph, but of endurance. Trust, it now realised, was of the same kind. Not about grand gestures or profound revelations, but the quiet decision to lean in just a little further, to risk a tremble, to stay present despite uncertainty.
A crack in its skin appeared, a faint line from where a stone had pressed too hard. The Potato did not recoil. Instead, it accepted the mark as part of its story. Each imperfection was testimony—a map of survival.
The slender root did not judge the scar. It curled gently closer, as though understanding that wounds were not flaws, but records of endurance.
Perhaps trust is not perfection, but the acceptance of imperfection.
Water seeped through the soil, soft and patient. The Potato, the slender root, and the small tuber shared it, each drawing quietly.
The sensation was simple, ordinary, yet profound. Not a gift, not a favour, but a mutual exchange.
We exist because we persist together.
A faint tremor above hinted at life stirring elsewhere—animals passing, rain falling, wind shifting. The Potato did not know what these things were, only that they existed beyond its limited perception. Still, it sensed that its fragile network had not been an accident. It was a small defiance of the void.
To trust is not to leap blindly, but to stretch carefully.
Time did not rush. The Potato, the slender root, and the tuber continued, bound by silence and mutual acknowledgement. Trust was not celebrated. It was not declared. It simply was.
A pulse. A tremble. A touch.
The Potato thought: This is what it means to be alive.
Each day became a new small testament, not of certainty, but of choice. Not of guarantee, but of intention.
I choose to continue. I choose to remain open. I choose to trust.
The soil no longer felt heavy as it once did. It was still weight, pressure, challenge—but it was also the medium in which trust could root and grow.
And so the Potato, once alone, found companionship in presence.
Trust was not sudden, nor complete. It was a series of small agreements, unfolding over time—a fragile architecture of connection, sustained by nothing more than the quiet willingness to try again.
Together, they endured.
Together, they grew.
