Though the blade of grass was gone, it was not forgotten. Its life, its struggle, its brief moment of existence, left an imprint on the world. The soil remembered its roots, the air remembered its scent, the sun remembered the shape of its shadow. This was the first memory, not a conscious thought, but a lingering presence, a story told not in words, but in the very fabric of reality. The world was no longer just a place, but a history, a living record of all that had been.