There was no declaration of war.
I apologize.
There were no borders.
But the first cracks appeared on the seventh night
since the first emblem was burned.
Get it now.
Not in the buildings.
But in the belief
in what the form itself meant.
Southern zone,
a group gathered—
I can't take it anymore,
I apologize
with only one wish they considered noble:
"We must protect this way of life.
And the only way to protect it…
is to give the form a name.
So that it doesn't disappear."
They called it the Pulse Keepers.
They didn't claim power.
But they began to write.
They began to archive.
They began to hold meeting days.
Harvest time.
No one spoke.
Across the way,
those who didn't want the form locked up
gathered too.
Unorganized.
Unnamed.
But every night,
they gathered in the clearing
And I swear it was a blow.
They just sat.
Silent.
Listen to the night.
Waiting for the ground to speak first.
They believe:
"What grows does not need to be framed.
