The world was not new.
It only believed it was.
And that belief was strong enough to make it so.
In the settlement of Inkwell Reach, nestled in the shade of a forgotten branch of the Concord Tree, children were taught that the universe had always been written by many voices. That no Author ruled. That stories wove themselves together like conversation.
But beneath the roots, beneath the whispering leaves, beneath even the foundational glyphs of shared syntax—
—something had begun to stir.
Something that did not believe.
Something that remembered when belief was not required.
Callen was a child of margins.
She had been born in a spiral-twined house, her parents both cartographers of unmapped metaphors. Her hair curled like questions. Her eyes shimmered with unresolved footnotes.
And she was bored.
The world was too harmonious. Too careful. Too edited.
She wanted the jagged edges. The wild fonts. The dangerous ideas.
