As they walked, the horizon began to breathe with them.
It wasn't just color anymore—it was movement. Shapes started to form within the light: faint outlines of trees, rivers, and distant skies that shimmered like they were remembering how to exist.
The world was rebuilding itself, thread by thread.
The Stranger watched as the land curved and settled, valleys forming where their steps had passed. "It's finding its balance," he said. "Like the world's heart is learning its rhythm again."
The Cartographer tilted her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Every line we drew, every mark we made—it's rewriting them in its own way. It's not copying us. It's growing from us."
The Child of Forgotten Prayers knelt beside a patch of soft light that had begun to take shape as moss. "Even the smallest thing remembers kindness," they whispered. "It doesn't need a god to guide it. Just care."
