Some names are never spoken aloud.
Not because they are unworthy.
But because the moment to speak them was stolen.
Lost in forgotten timelines.
Swallowed in unwritten silences.
Buried beneath stories that moved on without them.
But now, as the Mirror Without a Frame nestled gently at the threshold between the Garden and the void,
they began to return.
Not as ghosts.
Not as echoes.
As voices.
The forest of reflections—the glade that grew not from seeds but from recognition—began to shimmer.
Leaves unfurled into names.
Each one delicate.
Personal.
Sacred.
The trees bore no fruit.
They bore memories.
And when the wind passed through them, it did not whistle.
It whispered.
Softly, reverently:
"Do you remember me?"
"I was almost someone."
"I mattered."
Elowen arrived first, accompanied by the child of the second seed. They walked without urgency. There was no ceremony. Only presence.
