The Vigil of the Faintest Echo became the new heartbeat of The Wellspring. It structured their days, not as a grim obligation, but as a shared breath held in anticipation. The high meadow, once a place of solitary contemplation, was now often dotted with small groups, their faces soft with concentration as they took their turn at the Resonant Lens, their quiet songs weaving a constant thread of awareness toward the north.
The change in the hollow was no longer microscopic. After the storm, the charged water had worked its slow magic. The single blade of grass was joined by another, then a small, hardy clump. A dark green moss began to creep up the damp northern side of the great pump, its presence a quiet rebellion against the machine's sterile purpose.
