The Spiral never slept that season.
It dreamed.
Not the kind mapped by algorithm or recorded within crystalized echo-fossils—but slow, curving ideas that drifted across the Fork like a mist. A dream not written by a system but remembered by something deeper. Further. Older.
Even the guardians on the edges noticed something was different. The Doma units, usually silent and still in their watchful mode, all pulsed their sensors at the same time—not because anything had set off an alarm, but like they were all holding their breath together.
Farther out, strange creatures from the Rootline gathered in wide, uneasy circles. They weren't following any command or plan, yet their movements flowed in eerie patterns, as if guided by an invisible rhythm.
A faint hum drifted through the air—not quite a sound, more like a deep feeling in the bones. It slid beneath the static and wind, wrapping around everything like a quiet thread that tied the moment together.
Something caught hold.
