Ambiguity XXIX

The rain of pages did not fall like paper.

It fell like permission.

Each sheet shimmered as it descended—blank, yes, but brimming with potential so dense it warped the air. Some landed in the Garden, becoming petals. Others vanished into the hands of those who had forgotten how to hope. Still others—floated toward the Unwritten.

And they paused.

The tide of them, once a roaring, howling march of aborted timelines, stood still at the broken edge of the world.

They reached out.

And for the first time since they had been cast aside…

They chose.

Mira dropped to one knee, her blade reversed, planted gently into the soil. Around her, the sigils of defense—symbols that once meant hold, repel, resist—broke into fragments. Not shattered. Releasing themselves.

She looked up at Jevan, something wet and bright in her eyes.

"It's not a battle anymore."

"No," Jevan said quietly. "It never really was. We were just afraid."