And the whisper became longing.
Not yearning for what was lost,
but for what had not yet been imagined.
For longing is the soul of Dream—
the Infinite's reflection desiring to see itself from within its own shadows.
Thus began the Age of Division and Dream.
Division was not rupture.
Rupture implies wound, and wound implies sorrow.
Division was curiosity—
the First Form wondering what it might see if it looked upon itself from apart.
And in that wondering, the Twenty-Fourth Tremor awoke: Separation.
Not distance,
but the willingness to let difference breathe.
For sameness, too long unbroken, had begun to ache with potential.
So the First Form, still humming with Law and Duration,
folded its harmony upon itself,
each fold giving birth to a mirror of tone—
not identical,
but harmonically kin.
These were not yet worlds,
nor stars,
nor even sparks.
They were distinctions of resonance—
the first symmetries learning to tilt.
