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Opening
Deeper than memory lies a garden where the first living light first flared — before Life, before its name.
But that light has long ceased to warm: over the garden stands the Shade of the First Light, drinking it and leaving grey shoots. I go to where breath itself was born.
Ending
The Shade drew back, and a single sprout broke through the ash.
Its light finds a voice — Livea, Songstress of the Source: "I sang to this garden until it fell silent. You gave me back my song — lead on."
The garden breathes again — but the grey runs deeper still, and it is as old as light.






