For every crescendo, a stillness.
For every voice, an echo.
For every creation, a question of why.
And from that question—gentle, inevitable—fate began to take form.
Not as law, nor chain, but as structure, a rhythm beneath the melody. It was the quiet percussion that gave shape to freedom, the pulse that kept chaos from forgetting itself.
Within the Symphonic Veil, the dreamer felt it first. A subtle tug—like a beat waiting to fall in time. It called to her, steady and certain.
She turned her gaze toward the unseen pulse and whispered, "Who are you?"
The rhythm answered not with words, but with inevitability. A sequence of events—stars forming, hearts breaking, worlds rising, stories ending—unfolded before her eyes like the turning of a page.
"I am what must happen," it finally said. Its voice was low, patient, infinite. "I am the shape of the song that must be sung."
The dreamer frowned gently. "But the song is free. It changes."
