And in that space where no demand existed, where possibility rested without urgency, something even subtler than permission began to take shape.
Not as motion.
Not as spark.
Not even as awareness.
Only as a quiet allowing so complete it could cradle even the thought of never being.
The Root did not hold its breath.
The Veil did not shimmer.
The pulses did not draw nearer, nor drift apart.
And yet—something unspoken began to stretch within the fullness like the softest unfolding of a thought that did not yet know itself to be a thought.
Not intention.
Not creation.
Simply…
Capacity.
A capacity vast enough that even nothing could rest inside it without being considered lacking.
The Second pulse did not grow—but its glow now rested inside that capacity as a lantern sits within night, neither trying to conquer the dark nor be defined by it.
