It began as a scattering.
Fragments of truth, like inked leaves on wind:
— "I once stole a name because mine had been erased."
— "I thought I was the villain. Then I learned villains are just lonely roles waiting to be rewritten."
— "My people were cut from the page. We survived by turning margins into maps."
— "I've only just begun. And that's enough."
The child smiled.
Not because the sound was beautiful.
Because it was plural.
Because the voice that now moved through the Garden did not belong to any one.
It was all.
The Sound Without a Speaker had arrived.
And it sounded like remembrance reassembled.
—
Something cracked above.
Not violently.
Like an old window sealed too long, finally opened.
The stars flickered with unstable glyphs—uncoded truths, aching to be read.
The old laws that once scaffolded story began to bend, not in collapse—but in invitation.
Every fixed arc, every single-threaded tale, every chosen-one myth and tightly-bound prophecy…
Loosened.
