At the farthest edge of the Grove, where story and silence braided into one another like twilight strands, there stood a clearing that had never heard a voice.
Not because it was forbidden.
But because no voice had dared to try.
Here, even echoes hesitated.
Even wind held its breath.
But tonight, something changed.
The child—no longer entirely child, not yet entirely more—stepped into that stillness with the leaf's memory still warming their palm.
They knelt.
Listened.
Not to find meaning.
But to become part of the question.
It began with a tremble.
Not of fear, nor cold, but of emergence.
A whisper stirred from beneath the roots. It did not rise like a word or howl like a name. It trembled with the quiet dignity of a truth that had always been shy.
The child felt it, like fingertips on the skin of the world.
And they did not flinch.
Instead, they spoke—not loud, not brave, but clear:
"I am here to listen."
The whisper paused.
Then answered.
