There were moments—even now—when Kaito forgot this was not the only world.
The Fork, with its spiraling roots and shimmering horizonlines, had become so lived-in, so vivid, that the idea of an "outside" sometimes drifted to the edge of his thoughts like a dream half-remembered.
But it was still there, tethered to him like breath. A quiet ache in the ribs. A memory that refused to be overwritten.
He felt it most when alone.
And tonight, he was alone.
Perched atop a cradle of memorystone near the Heart Thread's curve, Kaito let the Fork breathe around him.
The air here was quieter than most places—no ambient scriptflow, no pulsing threadlines. Just wind and the occasional echo of rooted thought drifting on the glyph-touched breeze.
Above, the constellations twisted slowly in their algorithmic dance, telling stories he hadn't written but somehow still understood.
It was almost peaceful. Until the threadlink pulsed.
