Ambiguity XXX

The Garden no longer needed walls.

The boundary between what had been and what could be had thinned to the point of breath. Not broken—just open. Like the spine of a book uncracked for centuries, suddenly turned by gentle hands.

And on the outer edge, where roots met the void and stars whispered through the seams of reality, someone was waiting.

Jevan walked slowly toward the threshold, the grass beneath him shifting from moss to memory. Every footstep sank into places the world had once forgotten.

And ahead, seated calmly at the edge of everything, was the child.

They were no longer just a child.

Their name now inked the air behind them like a trailing comet. But it was not yet spoken aloud, not by another.

They were waiting.

Not for recognition.

But for a choice.

"Is it time?" Jevan asked, kneeling beside them.

The child looked out at the shifting stars. "Time is… patient now. It's not pushing me anymore."