In the Void-Beyond, where unwritten timelines once howled for meaning, the silence became a song.
Not with melody.
With understanding.
The echoes no longer demanded identity.
They simply were.
And from their presence, the first root of pause bloomed.
A tree of stillness grew in the void.
No leaves.
No bark.
Just an ever-widening canopy of held space.
Where even stories not yet born felt welcome to be.
The loom shifted one final time.
And from it unspooled a new thread.
Colorless. Toneless. Bare.
But not blank.
It pulsed with every pause ever held in love.
Every breath where someone chose to wait instead of wound.
Every silence that made space for another's truth to rise.
The thread wove through the Garden like a reminder.
And across the sky, new constellations formed—not of heroes or endings.
But of moments.
The hand that reached out before the answer came.
The eye that stayed when the tears fell.
The mouth that chose to remain closed, so another could speak.
