The morning after the silence was welcomed, the Garden did not bloom.
It breathed.
Not like lungs, not like wind. But like a thought so patient, it didn't need to rush to become language.
And in the breath, something new began.
Not spoken.
Not sung.
Not etched.
But lived.
—
The child—the one born from the second seed, from the shared voice—wandered past the fields of unspooling hymns, barefoot, as always. Wherever they stepped, threads of narrative did not rush to shape them, but curved gently, yielding like grass to breeze.
They sat beneath the Archive Tree, where records folded and unfolded themselves depending on who asked. Today, no questions were asked. Today, the child simply sat.
And the records paused for them.
Not out of reverence.
Out of recognition.
Some truths need no translation.
—
Jevan stood near the outer threshold. Not to guard. Not to guide. But to watch.
For the first time in years, he wasn't searching for what came next.
