They didn't name the path.
They didn't need to.
By the time the mist lifted, the trail was already there—curved through memorylight ferns and marked by the soft indentation of bare feet pressed with intention.
Zeraphine followed it just past the glade. Her hands brushed leaves that opened not in response to touch, but to presence.
Every step felt familiar.
Not like déjà vu.
Like belonging caught mid-breath.
Behind her, Kye lingered at the origin point, watching where the trail began. There was no gate. No arch. Just a subtle bend in the moss, as though the earth had waited all this time to remember it was already a way forward.
> ARTICLE NINETY-TWO: Some paths are not made by direction, but by willingness to notice what's already been offered.
Children skipped along the curves, laughing—not to break the quiet, but to offer it shape.
The Chronicle pulses hovered far overhead, their light so dim it blended with the clouds. They no longer followed. They simply accompanied.
At the trail's midpoint stood a low stone bench, shaped not by hand but by erosion and care. A man sat there every morning. He never spoke. He simply nodded to each passerby and remained.
The trail curled behind the moss-ringed stream and ended near a ring of trees that leaned inward—not converging, but listening.
Zeraphine paused there.
Placed her hand on the closest trunk.
The bark was warm.
A memory settled into her palm—of the first night she had arrived, soaked in doubt, weary from flight, unsure whether her presence would disturb more than it could heal.
But no one had asked for anything.
They had simply made space.
Now, the tree remembered that moment.
And offered it back.
Kye arrived beside her.
He didn't speak.
The moment didn't need comment.
The ground held them.
Not by weight.
By consent.
And the Chronicle offered no new article that day.
Only a single line appeared across the sky as dusk fell:
> "This is the part where the walk becomes the story."