The stone didn't break from impact. It broke from conflicting echoes.
In the center of the Carving Garden, a stone from Sulawesi began to tremble. Slowly at first. Then it cracked. Then split into two. But it didn't shatter. The two halves remained standing. And each began to emit a different echo.
The first half released anger. Of betrayal. Of echoes unheard. Of wounds forced into silence.
The second half released peace. Of forgiveness. Of echoes given space. Of wounds embraced.
Yohwa approached. He heard both echoes at once. But they didn't merge. They rejected each other. As if the stone was saying: Truth isn't always one voice.
Rava touched both halves. She wept. "This isn't conflict," she said. "It's the courage to not choose just one feeling."
Numa recorded the echo patterns. But his tools faltered. "These echoes contradict," he said. "But both are valid."
Raka stood between the halves. "In my season, stones like this were called 'Dual Mirror Stones.' They don't ask us to choose. They ask us to listen to both."
In the village, children began dreaming of two versions of themselves. One angry. One calm. They asked, "Which one is true?" But the echo replied: Both are you.
Yohwa sat between the two halves. He didn't try to fuse them. He simply listened. And the echoes from both sides began forming a new pattern not a fusion, but a dialogue.
The Soul Eclipse approached. It didn't absorb. It didn't judge. It simply spun between the halves. And for the first time, it released its own echo: an echo from a wound that didn't want to be chosen.
Rava recorded: "This stone didn't split from weakness. It split from honesty."