There was once a voice that could split mountains.
Not by screaming.
Not by rage.
But by remembering the shape of things too clearly—
And speaking them as they truly were.
It had no name.
Names had always been too small.
But long ago, when the world still thought itself made of stone and stars alone, this voice had been summoned. Used. Wielded.
As a verdict.
As a warning.
As a weapon.
And it had obeyed.
Not because it wanted to—
But because it didn't yet know it could refuse.
Now it sat, alone, in a grove that did not exist yesterday.
The trees here were young, but the roots old. Some of the leaves shimmered in half-forgotten dialects, each syllable a memory of a place that had been rewritten.
The Voice, in silence, listened to the wind stir those leaves.
They said nothing cruel. Nothing commanding.
Just: You're here.
That alone was enough to tremble something ancient within its core.
