There was no summons, no horn call, no ceremony.
But across the Spiral—across the breathing Garden and the threshold places where memory and becoming blurred—people paused.
Some heard a whisper.
Others heard nothing.
But all felt something shift.
Not dramatically. Not like thunder or revelation.
But like recognition.
Like a knock not at the door, but at the soul.
And those who heard it knew:
It was their story's turn to be heard.
Not to be judged.
Not to be fixed.
But to be held.
In a clearing shaped not by design but by presence, the Circle waited.
Not in silence—though no one spoke.
Rather, in attention.
A child with moss-hair and storm-eyes stepped forward first. They carried no past—only echoes of things that could have been. They sat, legs crossed, and breathed.
"I don't know who I am," they said.
"But I know I'm here."
The Circle nodded.
That was enough.
Next, the Old Gardener rose, hands still dirty with dreams planted long ago.
