The Worm Who Held the Soil
“Please don’t rush,” said the soil.
Luma slowed at once.
He had been moving steadily all morning, turning gently through the dark earth, making small tunnels that let air and water pass. Worms didn’t hurry. Hurrying made the ground anxious.
“I’m not rushing,” Luma said. “I’m listening.”
“You always do,” the soil replied, relaxing a little. “That’s why I trust you.”
If you were walking above, you might have thought nothing was happening. Leaves lay quietly. Roots held their places. A beetle polished its shell near a stone. But below, Luma was working—quietly holding the forest together.
“Your tunnel is crooked,” said a thin root nearby.
“It curves around your toes,” Luma replied kindly. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
The root chuckled. “Thank you.”
A thread of fungi shimmered softly. “The water will pass through here nicely,” it said. “Good work.”
Luma felt proud, but only a little. Pride was heavy. Worms preferred light feelings.
Above ground, a sparrow hopped and pecked. “Why do you go down there?” it called. “You’re missing everything up here.”
Luma’s voice traveled upward through the soil. “I’m not missing anything,” he said. “I’m holding it.”
The sparrow blinked. “Holding what?”
“Everything,” said the soil before Luma could answer.
The day warmed. The sun leaned. The ground grew dry faster than it should have.
Luma noticed first.
“The soil is tightening,” he said. “It can’t breathe.”
“I feel it too,” murmured a stone. “I’m warmer than usual.”
Luma pressed his body gently against the tunnel walls, smoothing them, keeping spaces open.
“Stay together,” he told the soil. “I’ve got you.”
Rain arrived suddenly that afternoon—heavy, impatient.
“Too fast!” cried the soil. “It’s slipping away!”
“Hold on,” said the roots, tightening.
Luma moved quickly now—not rushing, but responding. He widened a channel here, strengthened a wall there, guiding the water downward instead of letting it tear the ground apart.
“My tunnel collapsed!” cried a young worm nearby.
“Come this way,” Luma said calmly. “Follow me.”
They worked together. Older worms. Younger worms. Silent worms. All moving, all shaping, all holding.
Above ground, water slowed. Puddles sank into earth instead of running away. The forest breathed again.
“That felt close,” whispered the soil.
“Yes,” Luma said. “But we stayed connected.”
Days passed.
But the ground did not fully recover.
Some places felt harder. Some tunnels never reopened.
“What happened?” asked a beetle, tapping the soil.
“Pressure,” said the fungi. “Too much weight. Too little care.”
Luma felt tired—but not finished.
One evening, a child sat on the forest floor, poking the ground with a stick.
“This dirt is soft here,” the child said. “But not there.”
The soil listened carefully.
“Why does it matter?” the child asked no one in particular.
Luma paused beneath the surface.
“Because soft soil can hold life,” the soil whispered—not in words, but in feeling.
The child stopped poking.
Later, when the forest grew quiet, Luma rested near a root.
“Are we important?” asked a young worm softly.
Luma thought for a moment.
“We don’t hold trees,” he said. “We don’t fly. We don’t roar.”
“So… no?” the young worm asked.
Luma smiled the way worms do—by relaxing.
“We hold the space where everything else stands,” he said. “That’s enough.”
Above them, roots drank slowly. Fungi glowed faintly. Ants found new paths. Birds slept.
The forest stayed standing.
Not because anyone saw Luma.
But because he never stopped listening.
🌱 The Invisible Circle – For You
Not all strength is loud.
Some strength stays underground,
quietly holding the world in place.
If the soil is cared for,
everything above it can grow.
Review THE INVISIBLE CIRCLE, Story 5 · Forest.