It began—again—not with a scream.
But with a signature.
At the edge of the Grove, where roots knotted around forgotten tropes and punctuation formed thickets of broken rhythm, someone signed their name.
A new one.
Unapproved.
Unproofed.
Unclaimed by any Archive.
And with that signature, the Subtext Wells surged.
They had always been there—deep aquifers beneath the Grove's soil, holding what the main texts could not say. Things implied. Things inferred. Things feared too intimate to voice outright.
Now, they overflowed.
Ink bubbled upward in vaporous coils, not black, but shimmering with all the unspoken hues of identity: grief unsaid, love unlabeled, fury unexpressed. The mist condensed into forms.
Specters of implication.
The Impliquari.
They did not roar. They suggested.
A hand grazed a survivor's shoulder—soft, sweet, and yet it planted doubt so deep she fell to her knees, whispering, "Maybe I was never meant to be here."
