In Shelter-for-All, Miry opened the last sealed room.
A place they had once sworn to keep shut, where silence had been too heavy to bear.
Now, with a hand gnarled by time and memory, she placed a single seed inside.
And waited.
Not with hope.
With faith.
The Song found it.
And when it bloomed, it didn't become a flower or tree.
It became voice.
The voice of a generation who had only ever whispered.
Now rising in full.
No longer begging to be remembered.
But choosing to remain.
Far beyond the visible edge, in a realm once lost to the void, a single note echoed.
It came not from a hero or a builder.
It came from a wanderer—one who had always been on the fringe, waiting to see if the tale would ever make room for them.
They whispered:
"I don't know how to belong."
And from across the weave, across the Garden, across time itself—
Came the answer:
"You already do."
"The Song has space for all who listen."
"Even the ones who don't yet know their part."
