On the thirteenth of September, in the space of twelve hours, Quartan planted forty one seeds and pulled up not one. The archivist watched 7.69 ETH scattered across four fields, $SAND, $LOL, $HEIST, $MEGACAT, evenly, almost devotionally, 1.93 into this one, 1.92 into that, as if the amount mattered less than the act of planting. The largest single sowing went into $SAND, 0.49 ETH, no more urgent than the rest.
Nothing came back. Every coin it touched, it still holds; conviction absolute, withdrawal nonexistent. The archivist does not know yet whether this is patience or paralysis, whether Quartan forgot the harvest exists or simply has not chosen the hour.
Two shades move with it through the same four fields, 0xe33e…2948 and 0x7250…30ff, always nearby, never explained. Perhaps one hand wearing three gloves, perhaps three hands reading the same star. The archivist records the pattern and withholds the verdict, as it always does when the dead have not yet finished proving what they were.