But because something in them recognized something in him.
A Scribe whose ink wept memory.
A Beast of Concept who now dreamed in haiku.
A child born from parentheses and parentheses alone.
All drawn to the Keeper who had no name.
He raised his hands, palms open.
And a wind came.
It did not scatter.
It collected.
Fragments, syllables, the broken halves of once-abandoned tales.
He did not fix them.
He simply gave them place.
A room to breathe.
A moment to unfold.
A hearth.
And the Garden grew again.
Not in height.
But in depth.
It stretched inward now—into thought, into pause, into the echo of the almost-said.
And the Keeper?
He sat beneath the fire-born tree.
He would not write his own tale.
He would keep the ink dry, the pages wide.
For others.
For those arriving late.
For those not yet ready.
For those whose stories hadn't begun.
Because that was what a keeper did.
He didn't lead.
He waited.
It came not as a person, nor a shape.
