The Circle listened.
Not for words—
but for the way the silence felt different now.
It was no longer absence.
It was invitation.
A child—too young to remember the old stories,
too bold to care if they were breaking them—
leaned forward.
Their voice trembled at first,
but steadied as they spoke into the open space:
"Once, there was a river that forgot it was water."
The Book did not record it in ink.
It recorded it in pulse.
Somewhere far away,
the Witness of the Hollow Accord paused again—
but this time, not in hesitation.
This time, in anticipation.
More voices followed.
Not in unison.
Not in turn.
Like rain, falling at its own pace.
Like roots, growing in their own directions.
The Stranger Who Wore Every Mask But Their Own
took theirs off.
No one gasped.
No one applauded.
They simply saw.
And the seeing was enough.
Above the Garden,
the stars rearranged again—
not into patterns or constellations,
but into gaps.
Places where light did not yet reach.
