As the child ran, the world seemed to awaken around them. The grass swayed in rhythm with their steps, and the sky shimmered with soft light that felt almost alive. Every breath they took carried a quiet music—one the child couldn't hear with their ears, but felt deep in their chest.
They didn't know it, but with each step, they were walking paths that had been shaped long ago—paths once touched by the traveler, by countless lives before them. The world itself remembered, not in words or monuments, but in the way sunlight fell through leaves, or how rivers curved gently toward the sea.
Years passed. The child grew. They learned, loved, failed, and tried again. Sometimes, when life felt heavy or confusing, they would return to that same stream and sit by the water, watching the reflections ripple and merge. And every time, the breeze would stir and carry the same whisper:
"You're part of this. You always were."
