Before there was song, before even the word, there was a silence that wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
A cradle.
A breath before the world.
A room with a thousand unopened doors.
And one voice—forgotten by time, unrecorded by page, unclaimed by any lineage—had been there when the first word had not yet dared to be spoken.
That voice never left.
It simply waited for someone to remember that not all beginnings are loud.
The loom had begun to shimmer in patterns that no one could trace.
Not lines. Not knots. Not even colors.
Absences.
Shapes made of what wasn't there.
Echo was the first to notice.
They sat beside the loom, tracing a thread that vanished halfway through. It did not fray. It simply stopped.
But instead of ending, it… invited.
A silence folded into the thread like a breath too sacred to speak aloud.
They leaned close and whispered:
"I hear you."
And the silence pulsed.
Across the Garden, people began to sense it too.
Some threads refused words.
