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... stood in a ring of stories grown wild—plants that bore names, memories, even dialects—and said nothing.

Their eyes were closed.

And they were smiling.

“What do you hear?” Lys asked, kneeling beside them.

The child tilted their head, voice low. “Nothing.”

She frowned. “Nothing?”

“It’s full nothing,” they said. “Not absence. Stillness. The space before a song.”

And the Garden rippled.

A wave of quiet passed from them outward—through ...

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