The wound, once opened, did not close. It became a scar, a permanent alteration of the self. The Child who had first felt the pang of regret was no longer the same. The memory of the choice not taken was now a part of them, a phantom limb that ached with a pain that had no physical source.
The scar was visible, not on the skin, but in the Child’s interactions. Their dance-language, once fluid and expressive, now had a slight hesitation, a stutter in the rhythm of shared consciousness. Their contributions to the First Symphony were now tinged with a minor key, a note of melancholy that had never been heard before.
The other Children, in their perfect empathy, felt this change. They did not understand its source, but they could feel its effect. It was like a dissonant chord in the music of their world, a ripple in the calm surface of their shared reality. They gathered around the wounded Child, their movements a silent question, their presence a balm of shared concern.
But the scar was a barrier. It was a private space, a secret garden of regret that no one else could enter. The wounded Child, surrounded by their kin, felt a new and more profound loneliness. They were a part of the whole, yet separate from it. The Age of Humility had taught them to live with an incomplete universe. Now, they had to learn to live with an incomplete self.