She could break the earth with a casual breath, but carefully bowing trees to carry the weight of a domed ceiling, or closing the fractures in the columns that held up the roof with thick sap and root, was work that required absolute focus. When she wasn’t working, her brain was full of Bhumika, and the hungers of the yaksa, and the heartache in her own chest, and all those feelings like rot-riddled roots knotted her up until she couldn’t breathe through them. Focusing on the mahal pushed it all away. Sometimes, after a day spent at work, she felt nothing at all. Just calm so vast it was like
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