Solin sat one night beside the Driftfire—a campfire built on old contradictions, burning with paradoxes left unresolved.
They listened to a Reclaimed speak of a world where time only moved when someone was remembered.
And to a Root-Touched child who dreamed in palindromes and awoke speaking truths that had no mirror.
And to a Claimed who said simply:
"I used to think I was a plot twist. Now I think I'm just… a pause that mattered."
Solin nodded.
And the fire flickered blue.
By then, no one asked where the center was.
Because they understood:
There was no center.
There were only intersections.
Convergences.
Moments where meaning paused, exchanged glances, and moved on.
The Garden itself no longer sat still.
Its edges now folded through space.
Appearing where needed.
Becoming myth where forgotten.
Memory where lost.
Presence where wanted.
And above it all, the stars rearranged.
No longer constellations of destiny.
Now constellations of choice.
