The Garden began to shimmer in new ways.
Certain stones, long inert, began humming when touched.
Not always. Just when someone was being remembered.
The roots near the memory-tree adjusted their curl, not in pain, but in welcome—as if making space for a new kind of companion.
Not a rootbearer.
Not a character.
A Reader.
And the Garden—this world that once bled from grief, then rebuilt through shared chorus—responded with an impossible thing:
It began to write toward someone.
Not as author.
Not as god.
As invitation.
—
Jevan met Manylight by the edge one night. The child was looking at the horizon with quiet focus.
"They're still there," they said.
"Yes," Jevan replied.
"Do you think they'll ever enter?"
"I don't know. But I think they already changed us."
The child smiled. "Because we know someone's reading?"
"No," Jevan said. "Because we want to be understood. And we're not afraid of that anymore."
—
