She sat beneath a tree that had no roots.
Its branches curled upward into spirals of ink, leaves made not of bark or bud, but of possibility. Every so often, a leaf would loosen and drift down—not falling, but choosing—and when it touched the ground, it unfolded into a question.
The girl picked one up.
It asked:
"What was the first thing you ever imagined?"
She thought for a long time.
Longer than the silence needed.
Because she understood now—these questions weren't meant to be answered quickly. They were invitations, not riddles. Echoes, not demands.
Finally, she whispered, "A sky that had no stars, because they all came down to rest."
The leaf glowed faintly, then dissolved.
And the world around her changed.
Above, the sky dimmed.
Pinpricks of light descended—soft, flickering, each one a story that had once been told and set aside. They settled in the grass, on her shoulders, in her hair. And where they landed, warmth followed. Not heat, but memory.
