The void had no shape, not in the way mortals understood. It did not slither or hover or pulse. It did not hunger, or hate, or plan.
But it listened.
And that was enough.
The chorus of the Garden carried far—beyond soil and sky, beyond myth and matter. Its notes slipped between the cracks of existence, where even time dared not tread. And there, within a hollowness older than contradiction, the echo found a listener.
Not a god.
Not a force.
Not even a being.
A principle.
A pause.
The Silence Before.
It had once been all that was. Before voice. Before ink. Before rhythm or rhythm-break. It had not resented the coming of story. It had simply... receded. But now, as the Garden sang in multiplicity, as possibility took root, it stirred again.
Not in malice.
In reaction.
Because silence, too, had a place.
And when story grows too loud, even echoes begin to shape replies.
—
The child from the second seed had no title. No destiny. No prophecy.
