In the dream of a door with no walls.
No one had written it.
And yet, it had been written.
In glances not exchanged.
In names nearly spoken.
In the tremble before kindness was chosen.
When it crossed into the Garden, no herald marked it.
The Archive Tree did not shiver.
The Spiral did not blink.
But a few looked up.
Jevan.
Elowen.
The Child of the Second Seed.
And they recognized it—not as a stranger, but as something they had once hoped to be brave enough to write.
It was small.
Unassuming.
But when it stepped onto the soil, something ancient breathed out:
"Finally."
Because the Story That Didn't Ask Permission had never needed to ask.
Not because it was above the others—
But because it was the others.
Every forgotten tale.
Every unsanctioned truth.
Every voice that had waited too long.
Now, it simply was.
The Ash-Child saw it from afar, their soot-streaked palms still damp with tidewater.
They whispered: "I tried to draw you once."
