—
That night, something unprecedented happened.
The sky stopped writing.
For one span of breathless twilight, the constellations dimmed, the narrative glyphs paused, and the stars—so long compelled to map, to mirror, to reflect—went still.
Not blank.
Just present.
All across the Garden, people looked up and saw nothing told.
And for once, it was enough.
—
In the days that followed, the Quiet Between became a pilgrimage.
Not for learning.
For unlearning.
For releasing.
For remembering what it meant to feel without binding it in plot.
Some who entered left pieces behind. Others left whole selves.
And a few, the rarest few, left ready to begin again.
Not with a sword.
Not with a question.
With a willingness to walk beside the unspoken and not demand it become known.
—
Jevan sat once more with the child on the edge of that space.
"What do we do," he asked, "when the world stops needing heroes?"
The child leaned their head on his shoulder.
