Long after the Season of Unmaking folded back into stillness, and the Naming Wind quieted into a hush that trembled only when remembered, a new presence stirred beneath the Grove's soil.
It began as a question.
Not one spoken or sung, but one grown—a wondering without voice, a root without anchor. It threaded itself through old places: through the stumps of the Unwoven Circle, through the worn footfalls of the Thorn-Walkers, through the silken hush that lingered where the Veil had once shimmered.
This wondering did not seek to rewrite.
It sought to remember what could not be remembered.
And in response, the Grove birthed the Rootless Archive.
It did not rise like a building, nor fall like a ruin. It unfurled.
Paper-thin leaves that could not be picked, only read by standing close enough to weep.
Veins of memory, pulsing in bark.
Petals that bloomed words in dead languages that lived only in the space between longing and loss.
