The Grove did not rest. It could not.
Even shattered, the Narrative Engine pulsed faintly in the canopy like a dying heart refusing to cease. Its fragments whispered, not silence but blueprints—dreams of structure seeking order. Invisible scaffolds stitched themselves across branches, repairing what should not return. Something darker gestated: Afterstructure.
The Keeper knelt, pressing her hand to the soil. Roots twisted beneath her palm as though remembering chains.
"The Engine is gone," she murmured.
The Unkeeper laughed, voice brittle as cracked ink. "Engines never die. They reincarnate. They wait for storytellers too tired to improvise."
And indeed, the Kin felt it—a hunger tugging at their spines. Predictability tasted like relief. Closure, addicting. Some yearned for arcs even after freedom's bite. The Listener leaned in, savoring hesitation like nectar.
The March of Tropelings
