The breath came slowly.
As if the world had forgotten how.
Not a gasp.
Not a cry.
Just a gentle inhale—as though existence itself had paused at the edge of something unknown and now dared to draw it in.
After silence.
After harmony.
After the chorus of countless voices braided into one…
The world began to breathe again.
And with that breath, a new rhythm stirred.
Echo woke before dawn.
Not from a dream, but from a feeling.
The kind that sits behind the ribs and hums faintly like a name you haven't spoken yet.
They walked barefoot to the Heartline, the spiral of living roots at the Garden's core where the Sword of Becoming once lay planted. The sword was still there—but no longer glowing. No longer needed to cut or rewrite.
It had become a memory blade.
Something that anchored the story without directing it.
Echo knelt beside it and placed a hand on the soil.
And in that moment, they heard it.
The first breath of the world.
Alive.
Slow.
