The World That Grew From No One’s Name

It started without ceremony.

A soft pulse beneath Kye's feet.

The station's artificial gravity, once dormant, gently returned—not as command, but as resonance. The Vaultseed had dug deep, not into systems, but into silence. It had mapped the waiting, not the architecture.

And now, the garden responded.

In the trays where no seeds had been planted, pale sprouts unfurled—glowleaf and threadvine, rare flora once considered unviable in closed environments. They had not been stored.

They had been remembered.

Kye stood among them, feeling the air warm.

A station meant for ghosts had become a nursery of unclaimed futures.

The Rook-Spar sent a ping:

> "Environmental metrics optimal. Would you like to transmit registry update to the System?"

Kye smiled faintly.

"No," he said. "Let it remain unlisted."

He walked to the observation ring, where the glass stretched wide into the dark.

Below, the Driftroot hung quiet. Passive. Whole. But not alone.

Other signals were awakening.

A ping from a derelict barge in the Nebula Corridor.

A comms pulse from a decommissioned habitat ring last logged a century ago.

One by one, old names resurfaced—not because they were summoned.

Because the Chronicle had stopped demanding proof.

And so, forgotten vessels began to respond.

> "Is this real?" one asked.

> "Are we allowed to grow again?" said another.

Kye opened the Vaultseed interface.

He didn't answer with words.

He opened the garden's light signature.

And sent it to them all.

Not a call.

An invitation.

> ARTICLE THIRTY-SIX: Let the world grow where no name has been spoken, and where no one waited to be seen.

He exhaled.

The garden warmed.

And across the forgotten corners of the Interstitia, stations that had never spoken lit quietly with potential.