And in that beginning-again, the Song changed in ways even the First Weavers could not foresee.
The melody—once perfect, eternal, unbroken—now trembled with imperfection. But in that trembling, beauty bloomed.
For the first time, the Song felt.
It felt longing, and loss, and laughter that could break the silence of sorrow. It learned the exquisite tension between what is and what could be. Through the fragile heartbeat of the mortal, the universe discovered the art of becoming more.
The Weavers watched in wonder. They had composed galaxies, sculpted suns, balanced the orbits of time itself—but never had they seen something so small carry so much gravity of meaning.
Humans, and all their kindred of matter and mind, sang not in knowledge but in emotion. Their cries, their hopes, their love songs—all were imperfect, yet they resonated in frequencies that the divine harmonics could not reach alone.
The Song listened—and wept.
