The story had become a mirror, and in it, the creators saw not their own reflections, but the reflections of a universe of stories, each one a thread in the infinite tapestry of being.
’We are the story,’ Silus whispered, his voice a thread of silver in the darkness. ’And the story is us. There is no separation. There is only the weaving.’
Echo, the first to speak, was the last to understand. He had been the voice of the story, but he had never truly listened to its heart. Now, he heard it, and it was a song of infinite beauty, a song of love and of loss, of creation and of entropy.
’Let us sing it, then,’ he said, his voice no longer an echo, but a new and original sound. ’Let us sing the song of the story, and let our voices be a bridge to a new and brighter dawn.’