There was no title etched into this page.
No chapter header, no flourish, no declaration.
Just a pause.
A breath, suspended in the space between endings and beginnings.
Not empty.
Expectant.
The kind of breath a musician takes before the next note.
The kind of breath a parent takes before naming their child.
The kind of breath the world takes before deciding not to end.
It was not silence.
It was listening.
And within that breath, the Spiral held still.
Not frozen—aware.
The Reader remained seated in the center, the book still open, but no ink flowed.
Not yet.
They weren't waiting for permission.
They weren't waiting for inspiration.
They were waiting for others.
Because some stories could only be written together.
And slowly—like dawn spilling between clouds—others arrived.
A Child made of Light and Bone, whose lullabies healed wounds deeper than skin.
A Weaver who spun timelines into thread, not to control fate—but to mend the torn.
