The Whisperlight's comms window flickered with a low heartbeat tone, signaling background synch with Driftroot.
Zeraphine's voice came through—muted, distant, reverent.
> "You found something."
Kye didn't answer immediately.
He stood on the freighter's reconfigured bridge, watching the dark through the wide pane of a ship that had become a memory sanctuary. He could feel the resonance threading up his spine, brushing his nerves. It wasn't pain. It wasn't warmth.
It was affirmation.
"I found a place," he finally said. "That chose to stop proving itself."
Zeraphine was quiet a moment.
> "And you're not afraid it's… stagnation?"
"No," Kye replied. "They stopped producing, but they never stopped being. This isn't surrender. It's clarity."
He walked through the central corridor once more.
The light-lichen glowed slightly brighter where he'd stepped before—remembering not just his presence, but the manner of it. No path was being worn in. Every step became its own moment.
The Chronicle flame on his wrist didn't speak. It merely matched his heartbeat.
And then, just as he passed an unused bulkhead door, he heard a sound.
Laughter.
Not from speakers.
From inside the wall.
He turned slowly, touched the panel.
It hissed open.
Inside, a crew pod chamber—converted into a long resting hall. Dozens of hammocks. Tattered blankets. Each had a light-knot above it, softly pulsing.
Each one held a phrase:
> "I told them they could laugh louder here."
"This was where the quiet didn't hurt anymore."
"She made up star names. I wrote them down, then forgot them on purpose."
He passed each gently.
No body remained. No bones. Nothing abandoned.
Everything released.
In the far corner, a cracked viewpane had been scrawled with a finger dipped in some soft resin.
> "We are what we kept. That was enough."
Kye sat beneath it.
The Vaultseed responded.
A single thread pulsed into his chest—not new.
Old.
The same one he'd carried since he first walked out of the Sprawl. But quieter now. Not asking for answers.
Simply holding presence.
> ARTICLE FORTY-NINE: Being enough isn't a judgment. It's a realization.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't need to record this.
It was already woven.
And somewhere far off, Driftroot pulsed once.
Not for direction.
For respect.