The Garden slept.
Not with weariness, but with trust.
Its branches curled inward now, not in retreat, but in contemplation—folding strange blossoms into themselves, petals bearing the first traces of unspoken things. Winds carried no scent, yet those who breathed them found themselves remembering feelings they'd never had, glimpsing stories that had never been written.
It was in this quiet that Jevan sat alone.
Not at the edge.
Not at the center.
But somewhere in between—in the half-shadow of the Arbor of Could-Have-Been.
And in his palm, the Mark shimmered.
Still only a curve.
Still only a gesture.
But it pulsed with a rhythm that was not his heartbeat.
It did not command.
It did not whisper promises of power.
But every so often, Jevan would forget his name.
Not because it was stolen.
But because he had let it go.
And when it returned, it always came back slightly… changed.
Like a thought revisited after silence.
He had not told Aiden.
Not yet.
He couldn't.
