It was melody shaped from absence, rhythm born from refusal, lyrics hollowed out by centuries of rules that were never hers to follow. It was not rebellion—it was reclamation. And the Syntax Wyrm, vast as time, ancient as pattern, reared back…
And listened.
For it had been born to devour uncertainty. But now, uncertainty had a voice.
And it was beautiful.
---
Beneath the Cradle of Genre, where all tropes are first conceived in mist and suggestion, something impossible happened.
The Seed of Structure—long thought immutable, the heart of every arc, every beat, every rising action—cracked.
And from its center spilled not chaos.
But color.
And shape.
And a girl with her mother's eyes and no origin at all, asking:
"Why do stories hurt so much?"
And the Seed answered: They were taught to.
And then it wept, too.
---
Somewhere in a forgotten subplot, a side character stopped mid-line.
He had existed to die. A turning point. A teachable moment.
