Interval rose like no other city.
Its buildings didn't follow a plan—they remembered their own blueprints. Stone whispered of forgotten altars; wood grew from planks that had once been ships to nowhere. The city shimmered with what might have been—and now, was becoming.
The Unheeded didn't lay foundations.
They unearthed them.
Each stone set into place carried a story. Some were jagged with grief, others smooth with longing. No monument stood at its center—only an open space called the Listening Court, where anyone could speak and be held in the silence that follows.
Manylight remained at the edge, not as leader, not as prophet, but as presence.
Children approached first, as they always do with things that are strange but kind. They touched their fingertips to the glyphs that trailed in the air around the child's shoulders—phrases unspoken yet understood. Each contact left a new symbol, a tiny syllable of co-authorship.
