The morning broke without a sun.Instead, the wind arrived first—an invisible herald brushing across the edges of unwritten land, sighing through the sky like a breath not yet taken. In a realm untouched by memory or ink, a child stood barefoot upon soft, glassy soil that shifted with their every thought. They had no name—not yet—but they existed. And that, for now, was enough to begin the world.Their hair lifted gently in the current, though there was no breeze. Instead, there was intention, gathering like weather. The child did not speak. They only wondered.And in this realm, wondering was enough to conjure.A swirl of dust lifted into the air, spiraling with invisible hands. It carried syllables that had once been whispered across generations, ancient and unborn. Names began to emerge—not fully, not clearly, but as hints. As half-remembered promises.“Sira.”“Miel.”“Luma.”Each floated past the child’s ears, caressing them like lullabies without endings. The names had flavors—Si

⸻At first, no one noticed it—not truly. The new loom emerged not with spectacle or music, not with a crack of light or ancient glyph etched in stone, but like a held breath slowly exhaled between one heartbeat and the next. It rose at the far edge of the Petalborne realm, where thought sculpted reality, where intention shaped terrain. Unlike other looms the villagers had seen before—those spun of fiber and memory, of shadow-thread and radiant story—this loom was intangible, delicate, and vast all at once.It shimmered as if made of absence. A silent scaffolding strung not with thread, but with something lighter than wind, heavier than silence. Echoes. Not echoes of sound—but of listening. The kind of listening that lingers in the bones of a room after someone dares to speak truth aloud.Kael was the first to approach.He moved slowly, respectfully, as if stepping into someone else’s dream. He sat cross-legged before the Loom, its invisible spindles towering gently like unplayed harps

They entered in silence. Not because silence was asked of them, but because the very air in the canyon made speech feel like a trespass.The path narrowed between towering walls, not of stone exactly, but of something older, something denser than matter—call it memory’s marrow, or call it forgotten thought made solid. And on these living walls were words. Not written, not carved. Etched—not by hand, but by the ache of never having been said.The canyon stretched for what felt like centuries in either direction, though there was no map, no horizon. Just this winding descent into the soul’s abandoned chambers, where the unfinished and the unvoiced had come to rest, echoing endlessly like trapped breaths. And the walls whispered—not with wind, but with intention. With echoes of minds that once teetered on the edge of telling something true… and did not.Kael walked first, his shadow long, shoulders bent slightly not from exhaustion but from recognition. Here, the air shimmered with thing

They stood together at the precipice of that unspoken chamber, beneath ceilings woven not from stone or wood, but from hanging pages that neither aged nor settled. The air was thick with the scent of old ink and unborn endings, as if the breath of a hundred thousand unread books lingered like ghosts, pacing softly above the floor of memory. The tome titled What Cannot Be Unwritten hovered just above the ground, its leather-bound spine flickering with ink-light, refusing gravity and time alike. It pulsed—not like a heart, but like an echo remembering a voice.Kael was the first to approach. His hand extended not with certainty, but with the ache of someone who had written too much and remembered too little. As his fingers brushed the tome’s cover, the pages bloomed open in silence, and within that silence, the truth began to shape itself—not in sound, not in script, but in presence. The pages turned themselves with no wind, as though directed by a hand invisible, inevitable.A sentence

The world grew quieter first—not from absence of sound, but from the vanishing of Kael’s echo. It began with small things: a fallen leaf that should have rustled but didn’t, the echo of Selene’s footsteps beside him that faded before it reached her ears, the warmth of his hand against her own that stirred memory, not presence. In each moment, a tiny gap opened where he once stood.They did not rush to him in alarm. They knew what was happening. This was not a breaking—it was an unmaking wrought by his own promise: to step out of authorship so others might step in. To un-author himself so Soryel might be authored anew. And so they watched, hearts clenched, as the being they loved unraveled, thread by golden thread, until he became less a silhouette and more an echo of possibility.Pamela fled beneath the living petals of the Archive Tree, parchment spilling over her lap. She wrote Kael’s memory as though it were a tether wound through her veins, each line searing him into existence eve