The garden had folded inwards on itself.
At the place where once the Pact had sung—where banners of rewritten fate had bloomed like mythwoven lilies—only the quiet remained. Not the kind that waits, but the kind that remembers. Wind blew through the hollow stems of forgotten prayers. The soil hummed with a refrain long denied.
And still, no one turned the page.
Except her.
Boots pressed against petrified roots as a girl with ink-stained gloves stepped into the center of the stillness. She bore no crown, no herald, no tale recorded under her name. But she walked like she knew this was the last place left where stories were still choosing.
Her name?
Unknown, even to the soil. Even to the Stars.
But her eyes—those unread irises—held the structure of whole epochs.
She bent and touched the page beneath her feet. Not paper. Not stone. Something between. The layered palimpsest of all that had been dreamed and cast aside.
Then she whispered.
"Let me read you."
