The child of the second seed approached the page.
They did not hold a pen.
They held a story.
Not a single one—but many.
Fragments. Questions. Dreams. Bits of memory collected from a thousand unfinished arcs and ten thousand unnamed beginnings.
And when they breathed over the page, it responded.
Not with ink.
With color.
Soft streaks of golden green, sky-brown, echo-silver, and a strange hue known only as "longing made visible."
They stepped back.
And in the center of the page, something formed:
∞
Not a symbol.
A door.
And it opened.
No one walked through it.
Because the door did not lead away.
It led into.
Into the now.
Into this.
A space where stories weren't bound by cause or effect, but by coherence of feeling.
Where truths could exist without needing to contradict.
Where the arc was not linear, but woven.
And everyone—every being who heard the door open—understood the message it carried:
"You are the ink."
"You are the next sentence."
