The child waited by the Pool of Held Names.
The water was still.
Around them, many gathered—not to witness a miracle, but to be near its becoming.
Chorus hummed a rhythm of welcome.
Elowen offered silence.
Jevan offered presence.
And the Listener arrived.
The cloak of unspoken conclusions did not trail behind them—it dissolved, unraveling into petals of unwritten text that drifted through the air like half-remembered prayers.
The child did not speak.
Nor did the Listener.
Not at first.
Then—
"What happens," asked the Listener, voice cracked from disuse, "when a story doesn't want to be told?"
The Garden itself paused.
Even the wind halted mid-breath.
Because that was the question.
The one only this Listener, this unbegun, unvoiced presence, could ask.
The one even the seeds had not dared.
The child slowly smiled.
Not with joy.
With understanding.
"You don't have to tell it," they said gently.
"But I carry it," said the Listener. "Every moment. It's heavy."
