And from that simple why not, a new kind of magic began to bloom—one without purpose, without destination, but overflowing with wonder.
Creation had once been about survival, about structure, about harmony. But now, it was about joy. Pure, spontaneous, radiant joy.
Nebulae unfurled like laughter caught in color. Moons traced spirals across the velvet dark, giggling in their silver arcs. Time itself loosened its grip, stretching and curling playfully like a cat basking in the warmth of eternity.
Everywhere, existence danced—not to arrive, but to move.
And in that movement, stories began once more—not grand epics or divine battles, but small, tender beginnings. A flower unfurling under twin suns. A starling weaving a song that only the wind understood. A spark of sentience blinking awake in a tidepool, whispering hello to the stars.
There was no audience. No author. Only the joy of expression itself.
