Seasons turned as they always did—but the world no longer watched them pass in fear. The Garden, once a haven against storm and sorrow, had become a rhythm unto itself. Festivals bloomed like petals in time with the roots. Children learned not just from words, but from silence. And every path led—sooner or later—to the Grove.
Yet something new began beneath the quiet.
It began as a hum. Faint, indistinct. A song only the youngest could hear.
The elders thought it wind at first. Whispers caught in the trees. But the children tilted their heads and answered. Not in song, but laughter. Tears. Touch. They called it the Seed's Song—not a melody, but a memory returned with gentleness.
West stood one morning by the Dream Grove's edge, watching the smallest ones build towers from moss and broken blossoms.
"They say the Seedwalker's still singing," he murmured.
Frost joined him, her braid streaked silver now, her hands still steady. "Not singing," she corrected. "Calling."
