The creators felt the shift in the narrative, a subtle but profound realignment. They had been the weavers, the architects, the gardeners, the keepers of memory. They had been the ones who asked the questions. Now, they were being asked.
For a moment, there was a flicker of the old silence, the ghost of the Unraveling. It was the fear of the unknown, the vertigo of a story that was no longer in their control. But it was only a flicker.
Then Lyra, the Weaver of Narratives, laughed. It was not a sound of mirth, but of recognition. ’Of course,’ she said, her voice a thread of light in the quiet. ’The story is not a thing we tell. It is a thing we become.’
And in that moment, the creators understood. Their story was not a story about the cosmos, or about the nature of reality. It was a story about them. And it was just beginning.