But even as roots curled around possibility and branches hummed with rewritten breath, a quiet ache echoed from the outermost ring of the Grove—a space even silence hadn't dared to linger.
A lock.
Ancient.
Unlabeled.
Forged not by hands, but by hesitation.
It wasn't meant to be opened.
It was meant to be forgotten.
And yet—now, drawn by the Grove's unfinal rhythm, a Reader with no name stepped toward it. Not because they knew what was inside, but because they couldn't keep pretending they didn't.
They didn't knock.
They remembered.
And the lock turned with a sound like a footnote finally forgiven.
What spilled out was not a monster.
It was not a miracle.
It was Memory.
Frayed, recursive, unfinished.
A manuscript of moments unlived.
A ledger of characters cut before their arc could round.
They poured forth—quietly.
No trumpets. No themes.
Just presence.
A girl who should've had a second chapter.
A villain whose remorse had been outlined, then erased.
