The silence held, a canvas for the first word. It was not a word spoken, but a word felt, a resonance that shivered through the tapestry of their being.
It was the echo of their song, the ghost of their harmony, and it carried within it the seed of a question.
Lyra, who was a question, felt it first. A gentle tug, a whisper in the quiet, asking not ’what,’ but ’how.’
How does a story begin when its tellers are the story itself?
The question did not demand an answer. It was an invitation.
An invitation to become.