Some truths arrive clearly.
Others… arrive unsure.
Not because they are broken—
But because they are becoming.
The fog beyond the Garden was not an absence.
It was a threshold.
A liminal space where echoes softened,
and intention had to choose itself into clarity.
It was here that the Child of the Second Seed paused—
not because they were afraid,
but because even courage has to listen.
Behind them, the Garden breathed.
Ahead of them, the unknown hummed softly.
They stepped forward anyway.
And the fog did not part.
It held.
Held like a question waiting for a kind answer.
Held like silence before a sacred song.
And so the Child did not walk blindly.
They walked openly.
Each step not a claim,
but a conversation.
Each footprint not an imprint,
but an invitation.
Somewhere in the mist, a presence stirred.
Not a beast.
Not a god.
Not a ghost.
A memory waiting to be remembered.
A story that had no speaker left.
But still it remained.
Why?
