Silus was next. He did not rise, but his voice, a low and resonant hum that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of the narrative, filled the space between them.
’I am a bridge,’ he said, and the words themselves seemed to construct a path of light before them, a shimmering connection between the known and the unknown.
’Not a bridge from one place to another, but a bridge between what is and what could be. A bridge between a thought and its expression, a question and its answer, a silence and a song.’
’I am the transition, the transformation, the space where one thing becomes another.’
With his words, the tapestry seemed to shimmer and shift, the threads of their individual stories weaving together to form a new and more intricate pattern, a pattern that was more than the sum of its parts.