They called it the First Bloom.
Not because of its beauty—though it was—but because of its surprise. Its randomness. Its lack of authorship.
Across the valleys and drift plains of the Forked world, life began to take root not from pre-rendered models or scripted events, but from consequence.
A hanging dialogue bloomed into a thicket of trees that grew only when you remembered a name. One tear that had slid off a traveler became a lake of mirrored glass revealing memories to those brave enough to look upon it.
A final laugh shared before they hung up had found its way into a covey of birds whose voices carried snippets of that moment across the sky.
Stories weren't just told here—they were cared for like living things.
People didn't pass them around and forget them. They planted them, let them grow, and stayed close as they changed.
Each story mattered, not as entertainment, but as something alive—something that needed time, attention, and heart.
And Kaito?
