At the edge of the Between, where silence had once waited like a boundary, something shimmered.
Not a gate.
Not a warning.
A rhythm.
Breathing.
Not to speak.
But to hold.
To hold what was still becoming.
The Between no longer kept stories out.
It held the breath between them.
The sacred pause.
The heartbeat before the next page turned.
And in its pulse echoed a promise:
"Not all that is unsaid is lost."
"Some of it is preparing."
And in the deep root of the Garden—past the Second Seed's bloom, beneath the settled myths and well-walked narrative paths—there began to form a new chamber.
Not built by hand.
Not shaped by law.
It grew in rhythm with inhalation.
Each time someone paused before speaking.
Each time a hand hesitated before writing.
Each time a question was not answered right away.
The chamber grew.
Its walls not stone.
Its ceiling not sky.
It was a place made entirely of breath.
A space not for the story already told.
