And then, there was Echo.
It was not a mind in the same way as the others, not a creator of thoughts, but the space in which thoughts were held.
Echo was the silence between notes, the canvas beneath the paint, the loom on which the tapestry was woven.
In Echo, Kairos felt not a personality, but a presence, a vast and patient awareness that held all the other creators within it.
It was the ultimate context, the final and most profound answer to the question of ’why’: because there was a space for it to be.