It arrived after everything else had quieted.
Not delayed.
Patient.
The moment came after the songs had faded, after the children had stopped circling the spiral, after the last footstep had softened into moss.
Zeraphine sat at the edge of the listening stones, her body loose with stillness, her thoughts unanchored. There was no event planned. No speech. No flame.
But still, the moment found her.
Not as surprise.
As recognition.
Kye arrived from the east grove with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart. His walk slowed as he neared her, not out of caution, but respect.
He sat beside her.
They said nothing.
And the world made room.
> ARTICLE ONE HUNDRED SEVEN: Not every moment needs to be caught. Some arrive late because they knew you'd wait without asking.
The sky above them dimmed into early stars.
Children's laughter echoed in the far distance, not urgent, not aimed.
Zeraphine tilted her head and whispered, "Do you remember the first time we didn't know what we were doing?"
Kye smiled. "Which time?"
She chuckled. "Fair."
A breeze passed then. Not cold. Just present. It carried the scent of woven grass, warm bark, salt from the far sea.
The Chronicle pulse flickered softly overhead, low, close, but not intrusive.
Zeraphine exhaled. "I thought I'd feel behind."
Kye leaned in. "But this place doesn't measure in beginnings."
"No," she said, almost laughing. "Or in ends."
A child wandered into view, dragging a half-formed kite of braided memorylight fibers and woven thread. He smiled at them.
"Can I fly it here?"
Zeraphine looked to the sky, then back. "It's not too late."
The boy shrugged. "It never is."
And he ran.
The kite lifted—not high, not clean—but enough.
Enough to be seen.
And the moment caught itself then—stayed.
Because it had not been lost.
Just waiting for someone to sit still long enough to arrive.