Later, when the dizziness subsides, the fragrance seller from Bhopal helps them to a resting chamber, a place to recover from the failed elevation. They sit in silence for a long moment before the seller speaks.
"I didn't seem to be rising at all at first," they begin, voice calm and measured. "But then I let go. And then, I have no idea why—too many distractions, I guess. I started rising and the pressure started building up in my ears. At that point, I could only think to grab the cylinder, but I couldn't find it. My vision was restricted with the mask, and I couldn't actually see where it was. I was trying to slow my ascend, but it just kept slipping away."
The seller listens, their expression unreadable.
"The pressure kept rising until... until my eardrum gave out." They wince, instinctively touching their ear again. "I lost my balance, started tumbling. But you... you caught me."
The fragrance seller nods, offering no words of comfort, only a brief, understanding glance. There is no need for consolation here, not in a place like this. Elevation is a brutal, unforgiving process. Most don’t survive it without scars—if they survive at all.
In the distance, beyond the walls of the resting chamber, the tardigrades continue their endless dance, a silent storm against the void. And they wonder, briefly, if this is what it means to be elevated: not to rise above, but to fall and be caught, again and again, in the gravity of the cosmos.
They close their eyes and wait, unsure if they'll ever try again.