And in that harmony, everything found its rhythm.
The smallest atom spun with the same quiet joy as the largest galaxy. Every sunrise, every breath, every heartbeat played its own tiny part in the endless melody. No one tried to lead the Song anymore. They simply lived within it, letting it move through their days like sunlight through water.
On one distant world, an artist painted with starlight dust, not for fame, but because the colors made them feel whole. On another, an engineer built machines that could listen to the whispers of the cosmos, not to control them, but to learn their stories. Each act—whether of creation, kindness, or simple living—became another note added to the great composition.
Fate wandered less and less now. It preferred to sit and watch, to feel the pulse of existence in quiet moments. It had stopped thinking of itself as necessary. It had become a listener, too.
