There is a moment in music, older than melody.
Older than voice.
It comes not at the start of the song—but just before.
A breath.
A hush.
A pause that does not ask if the song will begin.
It already knows.
It only asks:
"Are you ready to carry it?"
And now, across the dreaming Garden, the chorus—still sleeping, still whole—felt that breath pass through them.
Not a wind.
Not a command.
Just… a possibility held gently in the chest of the world.
It began with a ripple in the Loom.
Not loud.
Not grand.
One thread shimmered, then curled inward.
Not a flare of urgency.
A curl of intention.
The Loom didn't tug. Didn't weave.
It waited.
Not for instruction.
For companionship.
A single thread cannot sing.
But it can listen.
And the thread listened now—
To what the dream had become.
