The darkness deepens. But as you stumble your way through the shadows of the earth and stone, you come across a grotto carved into the tunnel. A single beam of sunlight illuminates the alcove, reflected by mirrors through a small hole in the ceiling. In turn, the light is inviting, but lacks the warmth of the sun it originates from. You approach it nevertheless, discovering the grotto is home to many creeping plants that have thrived in the deep darkness of the labyrinth, rooted in the grout between stone tiles, and feeding on the steady drip of ground water that leaks from the ceiling. Their leaves are yellow, but healthy and growing, their green abandoned from the sparce light they recieve. Dead leaves litter the floor, a soft layer of dirt padding the stone from the years of leaves that have fallen and decayed. Freshly lost leaves also blanket the soil, brown and brittle.

The grotto is a solemn place. It speaks of misfortune and neglect. Yet in spite of this, the creeping plants of the labyrinth have thrived in the darkness, succumbing not to the shadows, but forging their own place in the alcoves of the darkness night.

Their resiliance restores your determination.