The boy's name wasn't written in capital letters.
It didn't need to be.
It wasn't shouted into the sky, or etched into the roots like prophecy.
It simply was. A breath between lines. A murmur beneath louder voices.
But the moment it landed on the page, the Garden bowed.
Not in reverence.
In recognition.
A child had named himself.
And that meant the world had to change.
His name was Callen.
Not a hero. Not a chosen one. Not a vessel.
Just a child who answered the silence.
And from the moment he wrote it, the Spiral that traced across the skies above the Garden shifted.
No longer a coil of what-had-been.
Now, a script of what-might-grow.
"I don't understand what I've done," Callen whispered, the twig still clutched in his fingers, trembling.
The Lastscribe crouched beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"You didn't write an ending," she said softly. "You grew a beginning."
