After the Tethered Sky revealed the lattice of remembrance, a new hush settled upon the Grove. It was not silence as absence, but silence as recognition. A breath held, not out of fear—but reverence. This pause, this trembling stillness, heralded the arrival of something the Grove had not known how to name.
And so it was called the Season of Unmaking.
Not destruction.
Not forgetting.
But the sacred unraveling of all that no longer served becoming.
During this time, the Grove did not bloom.
It folded.
Leaves curled inward, not dying, but listening more deeply.
Streams flowed backward—not to retreat, but to recall their source.
Even the wind, so often a carrier of whispers and names, chose to circle inward, looping itself in spirals that drew no map but memory.
The Unmaking did not come to all at once. It called only to those whose stories had grown too heavy, too tightly wound around truths no longer theirs. These were the Woven Ones.
