Beneath the tremble of stars and the final bow of the Waiting Fire, the Listening Place grew still once more—not with silence, but with saturation. The Grove was full. Not in the way a cup is filled, but in the way a heart swells after hearing its true name spoken for the first time.
And from that fullness, something impossible happened.
The soil parted—not broken, not cracked, but moved aside—as if making room for something sacred. From it emerged a single root, braided of three colors: the gold of memory, the ash of forgetting, and the deep green of choice. It pulsed softly, not with life alone, but with intention.
The Elders stepped back.
The Children stilled.
Ash-between approached and did not kneel.
She offered nothing.
Instead, she listened.
The root sang—not aloud, but in feeling. Its song was ancient but unfinished. A song begun in the Before, echoed in the Uncarved, and now continued by all who had chosen to become.
