The child opened their eyes.
The trees above them bore fruit for the first time—luminous, translucent.
Each one a story.
Not told.
Just held.
The Garden had never been this quiet.
Not because it was empty.
Because it was full.
And Jevan, watching from afar, whispered:
"This is what Aiden never saw."
"A world that doesn't revolve around a savior."
"A song that sings itself."
And for the first time in his life, he let the world move without him.
And smiled.
Somewhere beyond the Garden's known border, past even the Unwritten Wastes, a being awoke.
Not in malice.
Not in hunger.
In longing.
They had been waiting.
Not to strike.
To join.
And when the song reached them—not as sound, but as warmth—they stepped forward.
Not to announce.
Not to change.
Just to be heard, softly.
Even if no one saw.
Even if no one knew.
Because the song would carry them.
Even without a center.
Even without a name.
Even without an "I."
Endings once ruled everything.
