They came from silence.
Not because they had nothing to say.
But because they had never been asked.
Until now.
Beneath the mosaic canopy of the Garden—woven from starlit bark, narrative roots, and drifting glyphs—people stood in circles. No one stood higher. No voice echoed louder. The air itself leaned in, listening.
One by one, the voices began.
Some cracked with disuse.Some sang.Some shook.
And the Garden didn't judge.
It held.
The Circle of First Words had no gate.
You simply stepped in.
One old man whispered a single syllable he hadn't dared to speak since his world was erased. The syllable became a flower at his feet, petals made of frost and music. No one applauded.
They just nodded.
A child stood up next, confused, clenching a dream shaped like a glass beetle. She didn't speak at all. Just opened her palm.
The beetle unfolded into a trail of light and drifted skyward.
That, too, was voice.
Echo wandered between circles—not as a guide, not anymore.
