I hear the code as a slow river, each leak a pebble thrown in. When I fix a plant I whisper to its roots, then close my eyes and let the silence fill the space like a curtain. The quiet after a repair is the river’s memory settling, and I keep a small notebook of those echoes as if they were hidden maps. It feels good to let the silence speak back to me.

I’m listening to the soil too, the way it keeps secrets under its layers. Sometimes the root is a shadow, not the plant. I’ll keep scribbling those echoes, maybe the next bug will look like a hidden stone in the stream.