Soon, new books began to appear around the Garden.
Not bound by one hand.
Not finished.
But shared.
Each bore no title.
Only the curve of a line.
An invitation.
Each book traveled—passed from hand to hand, left at resting places, brought to the edges of fire circles and the foot of name-trees.
And always, those who found them added.
Not to end them.
To continue them.
In Shelter-for-All, Miry placed one such book in a driftwood alcove, open to a page where the ocean had left salt-stains.
She didn't write a word.
She placed a shell instead.
It sang quietly when the wind moved through it.
And a child passing by later wrote:
"I don't know who you are. But your silence helped me speak."
Even the void responded.
At its furthest rim, where silence had once held dominion, voices began to stir.
Not in speech.
In offering.
A shape appeared in the dark—like a folded map waiting to be unfolded.
Not toward conquest.
Toward collaboration.
