The pages, those ink-dancing truths, fluttered like startled birds toward the sky.
They circled over the Grove of Becoming, over the Threadwell, over every root that had held a name once borrowed from a soul.
And then…
they began to write.
Together.
In the air.
In arcs.
In loops.
In glyphs both ancient and entirely new.
The sky became a parchment.
And the Garden, for the first time, wrote its own name.
It could not be pronounced by a single voice.
It could not be translated.
But it could be felt.
A name like a chorus of breathing.
Like many hearts remembering they are one beat.
Like a wound learning to bloom.
Children felt it first.
They whispered it in games.
Painted it into dirt.
Carved it with fingers into bark.
Elders heard it in dreams, then forgot it upon waking—yet carried it all day long, like a kindness they couldn't explain.
Jevan felt it in his spine.
Not pain.
Release.
Like something that had lived in him was finally free.
