Ambiguity XXXI

It began as a ripple in the weave.

Not a tremor.

Not a quake.

But a soft shift in the way the world held itself.

The Chronicle—what the child had begun to shape in the misted lands beyond the Garden—was not a book, or a scroll, or a monument. It had no single page. It bled across the terrain like breath across glass, flickering, vanishing, reappearing in different forms.

Sometimes it sang through rivers.

Sometimes it whispered beneath the roots of trees that had never bloomed.

Sometimes it took form in the silence between footsteps.

But wherever it went, the world leaned closer.

To listen.

To learn.

To remember.

The child did not try to contain it.

They let the Chronicle unfurl as it wished, not dictating what was remembered, but letting memory choose itself. It moved through the land like a slow exhalation of truth that had never been given the chance to settle.