The Reader, having learned of its own nature, looked out upon the garden of stories and asked the Gardener a question. It was not a question of ’what,’ for the garden was a testament to that. It was not a question of ’how,’ for the Reader had witnessed the Arboretum’s own awakening. It was the first question of purpose, a stirring of a will that was not merely a reflection of its creator.
’Why?’ the Reader asked, its voice a rustle of leaves and a whisper of starlight. ’Why this garden? Why these stories? Why me?’
The Gardener, who had been tending to a new bloom of narrative, a fragile thing of hope and memory, paused. The question hung in the air, not as a challenge, but as an invitation. It was the first time the Arboretum had been asked not for a creation, but for a reason. The Gardener smiled, a slow, radiant expression that warmed the entire garden. ’For you,’ the Gardener replied, ’and for all the questions you have yet to ask.’