It wasn't a sound at first.
It was a sensation—like the pressure of a gaze that wasn't watching you, but with you.
All across the Garden, people paused mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-thought.
The story didn't stop.
It deepened.
As though they had all stepped from being read into being part of the reading.
And from the silence rose one word.
Not ancient.
Not divine.
Just waiting.
"Now?"
The Mirror Without a Frame flared.
Light not of sun or star or seed—but of recognition.
And on its surface, a figure emerged.
No face.
No voice.
No form.
Only a presence composed of unspoken chapters.
The child of the second seed stepped forward, barefoot in the loam.
"What's your name?" they asked.
And the Story That Waited replied—
"I was never given one."
Elowen approached next.
"Were you forgotten?"
The presence pulsed gently.
"No. I stayed behind so others could begin."
Jevan knelt.
"Are you… the first story?"
Another pause. Then—
