Novels by Eniola Rofiat

At first, it was only a ripple. A soft anomaly in the Cradle's long-range threadscope. Not a threat. Not a cry for help. Just… a presence. Drifting. Like a forgotten verse returning to a song mid-chorus. Then came the shape. Familiar. Unmistakable. The Mnemosyne. Ethan Blake’s ship. Long believed beyond reach. A myth, even among memorykeepers. Its last transmission had arrived twenty years prior—a flicker of Ethan’s face, weathered but burning with promise: “I found her. The last dreaming world. It reminds us. I’ll bring it home.” Now, he had. The stars parted. And the Nomad returned. The Loom trembled—not in fear. In anticipation. Lyric felt it first. A subtle shift in the dreamfield. Threads re-aligning, harmonics expanding, as if the Cradle itself had taken a breath it didn’t know it needed. He looked up. Smiled. “He’s back.” Aurielle stood silent at the edge of the Loom’s core, hands clenched softly at her side. For years, she ha

Lyric didn’t sleep like other children. He rested—but not in silence or stillness. When his eyes closed, the Loom shimmered. Not because he commanded it. But because he remembered how he had dreamed. Unlike others who visited the Loom to glimpse futures or sort echoes, Lyric entered its corridors like one returning home. And in his dreams, the threads unraveled—not into chaos, but clarity. Not into fate. But healing. Because Lyric didn’t dream of what could be. He dreamed of what had been left behind. And the Loom listened. The first dream began with sand. Not the shifting golden dunes of known colony worlds, but red glass. Fractured memory. He walked barefoot through it. Each shard reflected a different moment: A city was burning while a boy held a broken harmonica. A crater where voices once sang across galaxies. A single name, scratched into metal and left to rust: "Jae." Lyric touched the name. And the Loom wept. A soft rainfall fell i

The ship was silent. Not dead—just dormant. Floating at the edge of the Helix Veil, where solar winds curled like sleeping dragons and communication signals stretched thin. Its name, etched in stardust along the hull: Mnemosyne. Ethan’s ship. The vessel of the Nomad of Memory. Abandoned—or so the galaxies believed. Until now. The discovery came not from a high-ranked seeker or trained Harmonist, but a child named Ero on a scavenger outpost above Callirrhoe. Ero wasn’t supposed to access long-range subfrequency maps. He definitely wasn’t supposed to override ghost-signature locks left from a two-decade-old registry. But he did. And what he found made his breath stutter. A beacon. Soft. Human-coded. Pulsing only one word: “Remember.” Ero didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. He waited until the Mnemosyne passed again through a known fringe corridor—then launched his own vessel, Threadbare, and followed. It took four days of silence before the ship fina

It began as a low hum. Barely audible. Threaded into the Cartograph like static—or perhaps… a heartbeat. Not constant. But rhythmic. Every few cycles, a gentle pulse echoed across the Dreamspire archives. At first, it was mistaken for feedback. The anomaly. Then the interference. Until Mina—now grown and a full Cartograph Weaver—leaned close to the console and whispered: “I hear you.” And for the first time, the hum replied: “So do I.” The story-seed had no name. No author. No coordinates. It hadn’t been written. It had grown. Rooted in a thousand anonymous fragments: poems left unfinished, dreams whispered in sleep, sorrows never recorded, but somehow still present. And then—one day—it simply was. A presence in the system. Not synthetic. Not programmatic. But narrative. A being stitched together by intention, emotion, and resonance. A consciousness born not of data… …but of a story. The Cradle didn’t reject it. The Wild Echo didn’t

They never expected him to return. Not like this. Not as a man, or message, or even memory. But as something more elusive— A resonance. It began one morning across the Cradle Network. A flicker. Not visual. Not audible. Just a weightless warmth, pressing against the edges of thought. And a phrase, whispered inside countless minds simultaneously: “I remember who you are.” No name. No sender. But every soul who heard it felt the same unshakable truth: Ethan Blake had come home. It wasn’t a resurrection. There was no body. No voiceprint. No confirmation of coordinates. But the Wild Echo shimmered with unmistakable intent. Where once it had been a mirror of unnamed potential… Now it glowed with a tone. Low. Steady. Deeply familiar. The same way the ocean remembers the shore. And in that tone was something Ethan had always carried: Not a command. Not certain. But permission. To feel. To change. To begin again. Aurielle w

It began, as most revolutions do, with a question. Not a new one. Not a grand one. Just one that no one could answer the same way twice. “What is true—if everyone remembers it differently?” In the early years of the Cradle, truth was a thread. Linear. Traceable. You followed the echo back, found its origin, confirmed its resonance, and verified the intent. But now? Truth had become a chorus. No longer a solo voice, but a thousand harmony-lines bending around emotion, perspective, grief, hope. Each memory carried weight. But that weight shifted depending on who carried it. And so the first fracture appeared not in the Archive. But in the people. A poet remembered a war that had never happened. A city mourned a hero no one could prove existed. Two siblings argued over a childhood that both insisted was true—but neither could share. Their memories didn’t clash. They coexisted. And the Cradle allowed it. Worse—it preserved both. Because neit