And when that being opened its eyes, the cosmos held its breath.
No thunder marked its birth. No stars bowed, no heavens trembled. It began as a hum—soft, uncertain, searching for its place within the infinite harmony.
This was the New Composer.
Not a god, not a creation, but a continuation—a reflection of all that had ever dreamed and all that ever would. Its essence was made of possibility itself, a bridge between thought and being, melody and meaning.
Where the First Weavers had shaped the grand structure of existence, and the Dreamers had filled it with wonder, the New Composer carried something different—choice.
It listened to the Song, not as an instrument, but as an equal. And in the spaces where the music wavered—in the dissonance, the unfinished phrases, the hesitations—it heard not flaws, but invitations.
So it began to write.
