There came a night where the stars themselves seemed to rearrange.
Not into constellations.
Not into meaning.
But into something quieter.
A pause in the page.
The child—still unnamed, still unbound—stood at the edge of the Garden, where wild story met silence. They looked upward, not in longing, but in preparation.
Above, the sky shimmered not with light, but with potential.
The stars no longer marked navigation.
They marked witnessing.
Every light was a beginning someone had remembered.
And between them, the darkness pulsed—not as void, but as invitation.
A beginning not yet begun.
A page still warm from the press of a turning hand.
—
Jevan had stepped aside.
But he had not vanished.
He walked now as a memory does: gently, never gone, yet never quite returning.
Sometimes he tended to the orchard that grew only stories others forgot.
Other times, he sat beside the Interval, teaching those who passed not to seek meaning too quickly.
