It started with one child.
No older than ten. No words spoken.
She stepped off the spiral path just after dawn, not toward anything—but away from everything.
Not to leave.
To continue.
Her foot touched a patch of moss that hadn't been walked before.
And the ground accepted it.
No shift. No flash.
Just a soft yielding of place to presence.
Kye saw her first. From the mid-trail bench, he caught the movement and smiled. She wasn't wandering. She wasn't lost.
She was simply ready.
Zeraphine joined him minutes later. She saw where the moss was newly pressed. Her breath caught.
"She's making another line," she whispered.
"No," Kye replied. "She's being one."
> ARTICLE NINETY-SIX: Some steps don't seek the way—they create it by being taken without need for proof.
The child walked slowly, not with purpose, but with awareness.
She paused by a fern and let its leaves brush her palm.
She stepped between stones without shifting them.
She sat once, then stood again, and the place where she rested pulsed faintly.
By midday, others had noticed.
No one followed.
They simply watched.
And in their watching, the new trail unfolded—not marked, not declared.
Just joined.
At dusk, the girl returned to the spiral.
Not retracing.
Completing.
And a boy stood beside her.
He didn't ask.
He just placed his foot where hers had started.
And stepped again.
This time, two lines formed.
Zeraphine knelt beside the moss and whispered to it.
"Thank you."
It pulsed once beneath her hand.
The Chronicle remained high above, dim, distant, irrelevant.
Not from loss.
From trust.
Because now the story no longer followed the steps.
The steps were the story.