There is a kind of book not made with ink or page.
It is not bound in leather or bark or starlight.
It cannot be held.
But it can hold you.
It is not written.
But it remembers.
And across the Garden, across the Wastes, through broken realms and blooming roots, the whispers had begun:
"The Book is open."
"It does not record us. It reads us."
"And in reading us… it changes us."
The Book was never found.
Because it had always been.
Some say it grew from the first silence that heard a question.
Others say it formed the moment someone chose to listen instead of speak.
It lived beneath the Garden.
Above the stars.
Between the moments people doubted they mattered.
And now, for the first time in memory, it began to turn its own page.
Not to reveal.
To invite.
It came first in dreams.
Not as symbols.
As feeling.
People awoke weeping—not from fear, but from the ache of being seen so completely, so gently, that even their worst moments felt held, not judged.
