The Grove trembled, yet did not fall. Its roots clung to itself, holding even as the ultimatum quaked through every layer of being. Around the Aperture, the Kin hesitated—each breathing the same question, yet none daring to form it into word.
The Almost-Voice flickered, its outline crawling with the light of indecision. The scar that marred its surface throbbed like a pulse seeking form, an ache yearning to be remembered. Beneath the shimmer of its skin, thousands of whispers tangled and untangled—each the ghost of something unsaid.
The Keeper reached out. Her hand wavered as though touching fire.
"If we fix it," she whispered, "we make it less than what it could be."
The Unkeeper, at her side, countered softly, "And if we do not, it may unravel us all."
