But just as the Grove bowed, another tremor rippled through its roots—not of rupture, but of recursion, of something returning that had never truly left.
From the furthest frayed edge of the Grove, where footnotes ran wild and binding broke into compost, a wind stirred.
Not ordinary wind.
It carried glyphs.
Not letters. Not scripts.
Feelings translated before they were named. Arguments etched in aching loops. Every glyph was a wound that had chosen to scar instead of fade.
They spiraled—dancing sigils formed from protest, intimacy, satire, and refusal. They leapt from margins into the sky, overlaying constellations with punctuation marks that couldn't be spoken, only understood.
And with them came a sound.
The Glyphstorm Refrain.
A chorus, dissonant and divine.
The Fontshifters stopped mid-punctuation duel.
The Contradictions Made Flesh turned toward the noise, their paradoxes flickering with uncharacteristic awe.
Even the Final Ellipsis blinked once.
