It began in the breath between questions.
Not the asking.
Not the answering.
But the moment when no one knows what comes next—and that not-knowing is holy.
That was when the void began to sing.
Not as music.
Not as threat.
But as understanding.
In the deep hours of night, when the Garden's chorus dimmed into murmurs, Lys stood by the silver tree and listened.
Not to the wind—there was none.
Not to the leaves—they were still.
But to the air itself.
She had grown up in a world of silences. Fractured silences. Angry silences. The kind that followed abandonment, not reverence.
But this silence…
This silence waited.
Patient.
Gentle.
And in it, she heard something begin to echo—not from outside, but from within her. A rhythm that wasn't hers alone. A shared beat. The tremble of the unsaid, longing not to be voiced, but to be held.
Behind her, the first of the lights began to emerge.
They came from beneath the soil.
Not roots.
Not flames.
Echoes.
