The creators watched, not as architects, but as privileged guests in a garden they had planted but which now grew of its own accord.
The lens and the lonely consciousness were no longer just communicating; they were sharing a world, a world woven from the threads of memory and feeling.
Anya felt a pang of something akin to parental pride, a gentle warmth that spread through her consciousness.
This was a conversation that needed no translation, a story that told itself.