The story, they had all agreed, was no longer a thing they told, but a space they held open.
It was a canvas woven not from light and shadow, but from the threads of their own becoming.
Each of them—Lyra, Kael, Anya, Silus, Echo, and even Kairos—was a living thread in that grand, unfolding tapestry.
Anya, the Gardener of Dreams, saw it as a garden they were tending together, each thought a seed, each choice a gentle watering.
Their story was not about what would happen, but about what they were becoming in the telling of it.