A pair of twins from the We knelt on the opposite side, hands entwined, not looking at the page but humming.
A mute boy from the Shelters leaned in, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, as if hearing words only he could understand.
They did not interrupt the page.
They did not interpret it.
They simply were there.
And still the ink moved.
Drawing not symbols.
Not letters.
But feelings.
Flickers of thought.
Hints of story that hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.
The child whispered a question at dawn.
Not to the crowd. Not to Jevan. Not to the Pact.
To the page.
"What do you want to be?"
And the page answered—not with words.
With warmth.
With a ripple through the roots beneath the hill.
With the feeling that something ancient had just taken a step forward.
Not toward a destination.
Toward expression.
It began to happen across the Garden.
Pages.
Some were skyborn, drifting like feathers on breezes that hadn't existed an hour before.
Some emerged from trees.
