That night, the stars above the Garden rearranged themselves.
Not in patterns anyone recognized.
But in questions.
Celestial punctuation. Curves of light like open palms. Points of silence suspended in black ink.
Lys stood beside Jevan, watching the sky flicker with new, impossible grammar.
"Do you think the Void is still listening?" she asked.
Jevan's reply was quiet. "I think it's learning to speak."
Far beneath the Chorus Margin, in the deepest layer where neither root nor shadow reigned, the second child stirred.
Not the first—the one born from invitation.
This child had not emerged from a seed.
It had formed from resonance.
Where stories overlapped, where hopes collided gently, where fear was not banished but included—something had quickened.
Not a person.
Not yet.
An idea wrapped in flesh.
It took shape slowly.
Eyes first—not for seeing, but for reflecting.
Then hands—not for grasping, but for releasing.
And then a voice—not made of sound, but of possibility.
