But not all beginnings stayed grounded.
For even as the Grove rooted itself in resonance and rejection of form, something ascended—not higher in hierarchy, but further in possibility.
The Tanglement, once content to knot memory and identity into symbol, began to rise. Its threads shimmered—not with color, but co-authorship. Not a tapestry. A living entanglement. Stories crossing not to converge, but to consent.
It reached up—not for climax, but contact.
And the sky above the Grove fractured.
Not in violence.
In invitation.
---
The Rains of Reclamation
They came first as a mist—each droplet a line erased from someone else's story.
Then came the downpour.
Entire scenes long thought drowned returned as rain:
> A lullaby never published. A secret wish buried in a footnote. The apology the protagonist never got to say.
The Grove drank deeply. Bark bloomed in once-banned metaphors. Roots swelled with genreless grief.
