It did not happen all at once.
Names never do.
They are not given. They are grown—slowly, rhythmically, like vines wrapping themselves around memory. The girl did not wake up one day knowing what she was. She simply became something the world could no longer forget.
After the spiral reopened, the village kept its distance. The elders, once so certain of what should and shouldn't be spoken, now whispered with hesitation. Their language faltered when describing her. Some called her "the storm's hush." Others, "the ink-blooded." But none of these names held. They slid off her presence like water against wax.
Because her name had not yet emerged.
She wandered the Codex Grove alone.
It was not silent.
