In the days that followed the first page turning, the Garden did not erupt with fanfare.
It breathed.
It exhaled stories held too long in the lungs of the forgotten. It inhaled dreams that had no language, only feeling.
And above it all, the glyphs pulsed like a heartbeat shared across a thousand memories.
The Book that Listens had not revealed its nature through power.
It had revealed it through permission.
The child—named in glyph, not in voice—walked without entourage.
No banners marked their passing. No title framed their steps.
But wherever they went, those who heard the hum beneath their feet found themselves asking:
"What story lives inside me that I've never dared tell?"
And for the first time in any world reborn, the Garden did not answer with change.
It answered with attention.
A new practice began to emerge: Listening Circles.
No one spoke first.
They began in silence. Always.
Not to show humility.
But to make room.
