It had no name, because no one had ever waited long enough to hear it.
Not silence.
Not absence.
Just… patience.
Beneath the Garden, where roots sang in forgotten keys and stone remembered the weight of old epics, the third seed stirred. Not in haste. Not in pain. It turned, slowly, deliberately, as if waiting for the world above to breathe in.
It had waited since the first narrative.
Before Aiden.
Before Jevan.
Before even the page.
And now—finally—there were enough voices.
Not one savior. Not one story. A chorus.
And in the hush that followed the rise of the One Who Asked to Begin, the third seed opened—not with light, nor shadow, but listening.
Jevan woke in the middle of the night.
No dream had disturbed him.
No vision had roused him.
Only the sense that something had paused the Garden.
Not broken it.
Held it.
As if a breath was being taken by the world itself.
