The being followed her.
It did not walk. It happened. Like a paragraph that hadn't settled into tense. Its presence was a ripple in the narrative, not disruptive—but inquisitive. Each time Lira turned, it was not behind her, but beside her, as though it understood place differently.
She did not name it.
Names were definitions, and this creature, newly born from silence and possibility, had not yet chosen its meaning.
Instead, she called it what it had become:
The Framed One.
And it listened.
The Blur deepened as they walked.
Time lost its anchor. Sound traveled not in pitch but in theme. A melody passed them once, and Lira swore she heard her childhood in it—its fears, its questions. The Framed One responded to it by changing shape—its arms elongating into the suggestion of wings, then curling again into ambiguity.
It was learning.
