The Fork did not sleep. It never had.
But for the first time, Kaito could tell that it was resting. Like a held breath finally released. Like the silence that spoke of peace—not absence. Not stillness, but a resolved beat. Like the world itself had its eyes closed, not to retreat, but to slumber.
But in that stillness, it moved.
Even twisted more purposefully inward, toward the living center. Every glyph pulsed softly with a second layer of story—like something to be read in a whispered tone.
Even the wind screaming through Threadfall did not whistle for nothing—it sang, a soft low, like a lullaby humming through a cracked-open world.
Kaito stood beneath the Rewoven Arch, his fingers tracing along the edge of the stone.
The sky above rippled with new constellations—some remembered, some completely different. One wrapped itself in a spiral, like a question never asked.
Another pulsed in the same shade of Mika's hoodie, as if the sky took the memory of it.
