The child—now known in many circles simply as the seed-walker—sat in a basin where roots drank from star-wells and listened to hundreds of names bloom.
Each person who arrived brought something unfinished.
Each left lighter.
Because naming was never about finality.
It was about facing.
Facing what you carried.
And choosing not to carry it alone.
One boy, barely older than his own breath, held out a string made of his father's voice, knotted with anger and love.
"I want to name it He Tried," he said.
And the string sang.
Low. Proud. Bruised.
But alive.
The Garden itself responded.
New flora bloomed across its borders—flowers with petals shaped like syllables, trees whose bark whispered half-names in the wind. Pools formed in the outer rings that reflected not your face, but your first unanswered question.
And wherever threads were named, they nested.
Not in control.
Not in order.
But in acknowledgment.
A thread named becomes a thread that can be woven.
