It began with a contradiction.
Not spoken.
Felt.
A story that could not be written in any one language, because no single alphabet held the weight of what it meant to be multiple.
And so, when it emerged, it did not choose a form.
It became one.
But not alone.
The Voice That Has No One Name did not speak like a leader, or even a chorus.
It arrived like a feeling you've always known—only now spoken aloud for the first time.
—
The child stood on the edge of the Garden's listening stone, eyes closed, barefoot in dew.
Around them, the Garden vibrated—not in tremor, but in resonance.
The last few days had seen a shift—more visitors from the farthest remnants of the Unwritten Wastes, even from timelines previously believed obliterated. Whole architectures walked into existence: houses made of echo, fields made of paused time, towers built from the bones of extinct scripts.
All of them drawn to the resonance.
Not because it offered safety.
But because it offered a mirror.
