The Journey on the tunnel train takes Three hours and Sixteen minutes. In those times, the gardener thinks about what would the gardener do once reached the Forest. The garden would probably need a bit of cleaning and pruning. The Hut must be dirty as well. A lot of things to do, and a long journey to be made.
The gardener wonders why problems seem to appear out of nowhere when someone sets a goal. The leaving friend. The rude lady at the city council phone. The hassle of buying a single ticket. The salesperson who kept bugging the gardener. Why, Why, and three more Why.
'Why' seems to be driving people around. Why would that lady isolate herself? Perhaps because of a past trauma? Why would that woman be easily startled? Perhaps because of the cockroach? Why the forest is so important that the gardener would leave the house after all those years?
The gardener remembers a promise of a thousand roses to someone dear. The promise had never been fulfilled. If only there were more time the gardener thinks. If only time stops, the gardener would be happy. Time is harsh and cold, unforgiving.
Stand tall and might the gardener might be, live alone and safe the gardener is, but to have someone dear is the last puzzle piece that ever searched by the gardener. To share those teacups in the afternoon.
But everything as it is, time goes on. What has been, and will still be. Deep down, The gardener feels a hole. The feeling of being left behind and no longer matters in this world. Everything and everyone moves fast and the gardener is not as fast as it was before.
That small feeling of companionship, to feel at ease with everything because there's someone else that will walk together at the same pace. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but never leaves. It would matter the world to all of us, don't you agree?
And no matter how we try to stave those feelings, no matter if we burn them, bury them, they will somehow go back again, and again, and again. Like that pesky cold caller salesperson.