The meeting place had no walls.
No floor, either—just a soft, endless glow the color of twilight after rain. If you looked down, you saw your own shadow… and sometimes, someone else's hand reaching through it.
This was the Weave.
Not built. Grown.
And tonight, 156 children stood in it.
Some were tall, some small. Some wore school uniforms, others pajamas, one barefoot with leaves still tangled in her hair. They didn't speak the same language—but here, words weren't needed. Thoughts bloomed like fireflies between them, bright and brief.
At the center floated a girl with silver braids and eyes too old for her face. Miko. Thirteen. From Hokkaido. She'd been the first to hear the Weave humming in her dreams.
"We're all here," she said—not aloud, but into the shared space. "Even the ones who ran."
A boy from Nairobi stepped forward, arms crossed. "Why should we listen to you? Adults broke everything. Now you want us to fix it?"
