its a fungits

“A factory?”

“It’s where the humans make their things. It all comes from big buildings, with dozens and dozens of them working inside. Like chips, or pencils. I lived in a pencil factory.”

“Oh,” I say. I had never really thought about where the humans got things.

“My mother died when I was sixteen. It took me two years to get from the factory to this residential neighborhood. Lost my eye from a cat on the way, and this scar here is from where an automobile kicked a rock at me. I almost didn’t make it. I’ve lived in this home ever since.”

My eyes are wide, fingers curled tight around the edge of my loose shirt. Half the words are unrecognizable, but I won’t dare interrupt. Getting an audience with the Elder is nothing short of a miracle in itself.

“It’s been dozens of years. I cannot tell you the amount of times I’ve brushed death, or worse.”

The Elder takes another drag, and I try not to stare at the scar on their shoulder.

“The world isn’t meant for us,” I say, eventually.

The Elder snorts.

“If we weren’t meant to be here, we wouldn’t be,” they reply, smoke spilling from their lips. “If you weren’t meant to be here, you wouldn’t have made it this far. But you did, kid, and that means something.”

They pause, their legs swinging softly as they dangle from the edge of the windowsill. Before us spreads the beans garden, soft in the early morning light, the glints of dew almost casting a magical appearance over the green.

“Borrowing never gets easier. For us, living, it doesn’t. You’ve come a long way to see me, child, I see it in your eyes, and I know you want some special wisdom that will make all of this okay. But the truth is, it will be a constant struggle.”

They pause, a worn hand reaching down to smother their tea cigarette before flicking it over the edge.

“But there’s the morning light,” They say, gesturing out before us, “And it will always come. You’ll always be able to see the dew in the grass, feel the warmth of fresh borrowed food, the feeling of curling up to sleep after a long day of work.”

They reach over, their wrinkled hand clasping my smooth one. I hold on tightly, and they give me a soft squeeze.

“Struggling is our birthright,” they say. “But eventually, you’ll see all the things we struggle for, and realize it’s worth it. The wind on your cheeks, the laughter of a friend, an entire stolen cookie.”

They let out a small chuckle at the end, giving my hand another squeeze before releasing it.

“We’re made so small so we can see the beauty in these small things, my child. And once you see that beauty? It makes it all worth it.”

I nod, turning my gaze back out to the garden. It’s not the answer I traveled here for. Futility, burden, the overwhelming state of my existence still burns heavy in my chest.

But the dewdrops on the tomato plants catch the light in a way that makes them sparkle. Flowers unfurl gently, a small breeze teases its way through my hair, and from inside I can hear someone beginning to practice piano.

It’s nice.

“Thank you, Elder.”

They pat my hand.

“You’re never in this alone, child.”