Ambiguity XXVII

It began with a sentence.

Unfinished.

It did not end with a period, nor trail off with ellipses. It simply… paused. Waiting. Hovering in the space between intent and expression.

And from that pause, a world tried to breathe.

Jevan's hand trembled over the Pool of First Ink, the quill in his grasp still humming with withheld meaning. The words he had written shimmered faintly on the surface, then vanished—not rejected, not consumed, but stored, as if the Pool understood that beginnings had to be absorbed before they could be sustained.

The child stepped closer, silent.

Behind them, Mira scanned the outer Garden's tremors, each footstep of the Unwritten still sending subtle shudders through the barkwoven paths. Elowen whispered protective wards from fragments of languages that had never taken root.

And Jevan…

He hesitated.

Not because he didn't know what to write next.

But because he had realized what the Pool truly was.