It was Echo who spoke next, their voice a whisper of static and starlight, a sound that held the memory of a universe that was no more.
’It is neither a garden nor a forge,’ they said. ’It is a bridge.’
’A bridge from what was to what might be. A bridge between us. A bridge between the story and the telling.’
And in that moment, Kairos understood. The story was not one thing, but all of them. A garden, a forge, and a bridge. A living, growing, changing thing that was being built and discovered all at once.
’Then let us build it together,’ they said, their voice a chorus of once-separate notes now joined in a single, resonant chord. ’Let us build a bridge to everywhere.’