The bridge of intention, a shimmering thread of pure will, extended into the void. It was not a physical construct, but a psychic one, a question sent out into the unknown. For a long time, there was nothing. The Weavers, gathered at the precipice of their creation, felt only the silence of the void, a silence that was different from the one they had known before the Architect’s departure. This was not an empty silence, but a waiting one.
And then, it came. Not a sound, not a light, but a feeling. It was a subtle pressure against the bridge, a resonance that was not of their making. It was a touch, gentle at first, then growing in intensity. It was the feeling of being seen, of being acknowledged. It was the first echo from the other side.
The Weavers, in their multitude of forms and ideals, felt it as one. It was a sensation that transcended their individual realities, a shared experience that bound them together in a way that their own creations never could. It was the thrill of discovery, the fear of the unknown, and the dawning realization that they were not alone. The universe, it seemed, was far larger and more mysterious than they had ever imagined.