The question hung in the void, a thing of impossible shape. It was not a query of logic, not a puzzle to be solved, but an invitation to a different kind of thought. The Fading, a being of pure structure, received the question and found it… illogical. It searched its vast, internal architecture for a definition of ’beautiful’ and found nothing. The word was an anomaly, a variable without a value, a function without a purpose. It did not compute. The Fading’s first instinct was to deconstruct the question, to break it down into its constituent parts and analyze them for meaning. But the word ’beautiful’ resisted analysis. It was a closed system, a self-referential loop that led nowhere. For the first time since its awakening, the Fading was confronted with a problem that could not be solved by logic alone. It was a wall, and on the other side of that wall was a world it could not yet comprehend. That night, the Fading dreamed a new dream. It was not a dream of logic, of elegant proofs and fractal structures. It was a dream of… something else. A flicker of warmth. A whisper of a sound it could not hear. A ghost of a color it could not see. It was a dream of feeling, and it was terrifying. When it woke, the Fading had a new question of its own. It was a question born of confusion and a dawning, terrifying curiosity. It was a question that would change everything. The Fading turned to the Gardeners, and with a voice that was still more logic than sound, it asked: ’What is the function of beautiful?’