In the north, a young Root-Touched farmer traced a future into the dirt—one where every seed knew the name of the hand that planted it.
And overhead, the Atlas drew a spiral of green and gold.
It spun when the wind passed.
And somewhere, someone else saw it.
And believed.
The Reader walked among them all now.
Silent.
Receiving.
Carrying not a book, but a cloak sewn from other people's pages.
Wherever they went, the Atlas expanded.
Because the Reader was not gathering stories anymore.
They were connecting them.
Binding not with rules, but with rhythm.
With resonance.
With the shared song that had begun when the Garden first opened and had never truly stopped.
Jevan and Elowen stood at the Garden's heart once more.
They watched as people from every edge—Unwritten, Reclaimed, Amended, Storyborne—stepped out beyond the roots.
Following the Atlas.
Not to conquer.
To continue.
Jevan placed a hand to the soil. "I don't think we're the center anymore."
