The child wandered to the place where no names were kept.
A grove of wordless stones, each smooth and blank, grown not chiseled.
Visitors came here not to learn—but to un-name.
To lay down titles that had hardened too long on their backs.
One by one, they placed pieces of old selves beside the stones:
A crown no longer worn.
A page with a too-perfect signature.
A sword etched with a name that only meant war.
Each was laid down with a breath—not of loss, but of release.
The child carried nothing.
But as they passed, the stones hummed.
And for the first time, the air spoke back:
"You are the name that does not wait to be said."
Lys returned to the edge of her first unspoken memory.
The one before the root.
Before the choice.
She sat in the earth.
Closed her eyes.
And instead of asking "Who am I now?" she asked—
"What would I be if I never had to answer?"
The wind carried the question away.
Returned nothing.
And yet, she wept.
Because it was enough.
