Ambiguity XXXII

The sky above the Chronicle dimmed.

Not with shadow.

But with silence.

A ripple passed through the margins of the rewritten world—a stillness that made the wind hold its breath, that made even the ink in the Chronicle hesitate. Across the Garden, across the vast, breathing Library, across the scattered remnants of old timelines sewn anew, a single presence was felt.

The Faceless Star had returned.

It did not fall.

It did not blaze.

It simply arrived, suspended above the world like an idea unspoken for too long.

Jevan saw it first.

He had been walking along the northern edge of the River of Ink, where reflections did not always match the viewer. He had paused to drink, and in the surface, he saw a sky that no longer belonged to the Garden.

No stars.

Just one.

A great shape—formless and perfect.

It had no edges. No name. No voice.

But he recognized it.

Everyone did.