The Second Seed Child stood.
Not to challenge.
But to meet.
Their gaze met the Story's not-eyes.
"You didn't ask."
"No," the Story replied, voice like rain against old myths.
"I didn't have to."
In another time, in another place, that would've meant war.
Here, it meant recognition.
For this Story had not come to conquer—
It had come to continue.
To take the compost of forgotten truths,
the mulch of broken plots,
and plant something wild.
"You are not from the Garden," whispered Jevan.
"I'm not," the Story agreed.
"But you are not only of it either."
The Circle fell still.
And then—
They nodded.
Because it was true.
They were no longer of one place, one myth, one song.
They were collage.
They were remix.
They were becoming.
The Story sat beside the fire.
It did not ask for a seat.
It made no speech.
But from it, other stories began to rise—
Unwritten ones.
Unlived ones.
Unspoken ones.
And suddenly…
The Garden felt younger.
