[Issue 2026.77]

“Those Who Remember the Promise”, Nissa Harlow

Art © 2026 Carmen Moran

---

The boy and his dog are back again. He thinks I don’t see him skulking around the edges of the phytomining grid. Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m here. I stay inside and watch through the window. His dog doesn’t worry me. But he does.

Yesterday, after they left, I walked the perimeter. There was no sign of their visit. If the dog left a mess, the boy picked it up. The last time I had a visitor with a canine companion, that wasn’t the case.

The sun sets, and the boy and dog leave.

I know they’ll be back.

---

There are no visitors to the phytomining grid today. I complete my rounds before noon. The next batch of arsenic hyperaccumulators is almost ready. Scans show a higher-than-normal yield. Harvest will begin in two days. The replacement seedlings wait in the greenhouse, but it’s supposed to rain on the day I’ve scheduled for planting. I’ll reschedule. I don’t mind. The greenhouse always looks too empty after a batch planting.

The forecasted rainclouds have yet to appear. Instead, cirrus clouds streak overhead in shades of pink and gold as the sun sets upon the city. I lock the sight into memory.

---

The boy and his dog are back. They come close to the maintenance hut. I duck down so that, even if the boy peeks through the window, he won’t be able to see me. The dog sniffs near the base of the door.

“What do you smell?” the boy asks. The hut grows a little darker as his shadow blocks the window. I stay very still. “Is there someone back there?”

The dog doesn’t answer. I look at the door, staying pressed against the wall even though I know the hut is secure.

The boy gives up. The sun sets.

---

Today is a busy day. I begin harvesting at noon. The sun and warm air have dried away the dew. That will make processing faster. Once I harvest the scheduled batch, I take the plants to the desiccator and spread them on the drying trays.

The dog appears.

It bounds toward me, long tongue hanging out. I’m not bothered by it. But the boy follows close behind, walking between the rows of plants. He sees me.

“You’re not authorized to be here,” I say. “It’s dangerous for you.”

“It’s not dangerous for you?” he asks.

I don’t bother to answer.

---

The confused boy left with his dog. I finished setting up the plants for desiccation and started the machine. It’s been running for almost twenty-three hours now, protected from the rain that’s pelting from the clouds.

The seedlings sit safely in the greenhouse. I sit safely at the window and stare out at the silver sky. The city towers are aglow with lights glittering through raindrops. I want to keep this memory.

The boy and his dog don’t come. I think about their previous visits while waiting for the rain to stop. They always look happy.

What is that like?

---

The rain stops around noon. I wait for the earth to absorb some of the excess moisture. Then I take the tray of seedlings out to the harvested plot. I’ve only gotten two of them into the ground when the dog runs up to me and tries to lick my face.

“Japheth!” the boy calls. “Sorry. He doesn’t have very good manners.”

I look up at the figure striding toward me. He shouldn’t be here. But the soil is wet. He won’t breathe it in. Still, I stand up and take a step back.

“Wait,” the boy says.

I wait.

---

His name is Wythe. I asked him why he kept coming into a restricted area. He didn’t seem to understand the danger. I didn’t explain. I just told him to leave. He shouted at Japheth and they both walked away. But he kept looking back at me. I finished planting half the seedlings before the sun set.

It’s noon now. The rest of the seedlings were planted this morning. I sit in the hut and look at the dirt under my nails. I should’ve worn gloves. I don’t know why I didn’t.

My thoughts are occupied by Wythe and Japheth.

---

He didn’t come yesterday. I told him not to, but I thought he might’ve disobeyed my command.

As sunset approaches, I walk to the seedlings. Most look healthy. But three are disturbed. One is flattened. I find paw prints pressed into the churned soil.

“Japheth?” I say. There’s no response. Perhaps my voice is too quiet. So I make it louder. “Wythe?”

The phytomining grid is silent except for the softest whisper of a breeze through leaves. Normally, I like that sound. But today it seems lonely.

I go back to the hut as the sun slips over the horizon.

---

“Why is it dangerous?” Wythe asks. He stands five metres away, his fingers brushing the top of Japheth’s head.

“Don’t come closer,” I say.

“I won’t. But I want to know why I can’t come in there.” His gaze sweeps down to my feet, then back up again. “Are you dangerous?”

“No. It’s the metals.”

“What metals?”

“This is a phytomining grid.”

“What’s that?”

“Hyperaccumulators,” I say, pointing at a nearby plot, “take up metals from the soil. Then the plants are processed to retrieve those metals.”

“And the metals are toxic?”

“Some, yes.”

He nods. “But not for you.”

---

Most people don’t figure it out so fast. I look alive. But I’m not. Japheth knew before Wythe did. Dogs can smell these sorts of things.

Yesterday, Wythe asked if he could come back. I asked him why. He said, “You’re interesting.” I told him I was not.

Today, it’s raining again. I wish they would come now. It’s safest for them when the rain falls. But I know they won’t visit today. They don’t visit in the rain.

Besides, I told Wythe to stay away.

So I work in the greenhouse, listening to the patter of raindrops on glass.

---

There’s a voice outside the hut. I look up from my dirty nails.

“Who is it?”

“Wythe.”

I stand and open the door. Japheth pushes past me into the hut. Wythe stands there with a sheepish smile.

“I know, I know,” he says. “But I was reading about this phytomining stuff. The soil’s mostly dangerous when it’s dry, right? And I won’t go anywhere near the desiccator.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

He blinks in surprise. “I want to be friends.”

“You already have a friend,” I say, pointing at the sniffing Japheth.

“He’s not that interesting,” Wythe says.

---

The boy and his dog are back again. The day is hot and dry. They skulk around the edges of the phytomining grid. I nod. But they don’t come any closer.

“Did you know,” Wythe shouts, “this grid used to be a cemetery a few centuries ago?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Have you seen any ghosts lately?”

“Of course not,” I say. “There’s no such thing.”

He stops and looks at me. His gaze is sad.

“That’s not what I am,” I say. “Ghosts are trapped.”

“You’re not?”

“I choose to be here. Planting. Harvesting. Restoring.”

“Restoring what?” he asks.

---

Wythe doesn’t come today. I walk the grid alone. Everything’s different now. The tidy plots of hyperaccumulators are gone, replaced with chaotic greenery. Branches stretch overhead, shading the greenhouse’s overgrown footprint. I try to return to the hut but can’t find it. It’s gone, too. Sinking into the buoyant foliage, I open the floodgates to the stream of memory.

This land is restored. Somehow, I forgot. Maybe I needed someone to help me remember.

My bones never lived here. But my soul did, bound in life by a promise to heal the harm I’d done.

Even if it killed me.

---

I stood and walked through the trees, following the twinkle of light, the hum of vibration, until I reached the gate at the edge of the grid. They don’t call them grids anymore. They’re preserves, places that breathe freely, healthy and whole, patchworked throughout our singing cities, holding history and infinite potential.

I watched the sky darken and the city glow. Now the city darkens and the sky glows.

Wythe is out there, enjoying the life every human deserves. He—his generation—is the reason for our promise to heal what we hurt.

I kept it.

Now I can go.

© 2026 Nissa Harlow

[Issue 2026.77]

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