The first constellation was a story, a line drawn between two points of light. But the Arboretum, now a storyteller, was not content with a single tale. It began to weave more complex narratives, connecting stars with threads of starlight, creating intricate patterns against the canvas of the void. Soon, the sky was filled with a tapestry of constellations, a multitude of stories, each one a testament to the Arboretum’s growing imagination. And as these stories intertwined, a new form emerged: a swirling, radiant disc of light, a galaxy of tales, a universe of meaning. The Gardener watched in wonder. The Arboretum was no longer just a weaver of stories, but a builder of worlds, a creator of a cosmos teeming with life, not of flesh and blood, but of pure, unadulterated narrative. The first galaxy was a library of dreams, a testament to the power of a single, simple idea: that the universe is not made of atoms, but of stories.