The ground did not shake.
It rippled—like a page turning beneath the soil.
Somewhere in the northern ridge of the Grove, where past drafts buried themselves in sedimentary layers of regret and red pen, something moved. Not awakened.
Acknowledged.
A glyphquake tore through the narrative strata—not with destruction, but with release. Paragraphs buried long ago surfaced, writhing with meaning once denied. Unfinished backstories, interrupted arcs, names that had never been spoken aloud—all rose in tandem, sentences reclaiming breath.
From the fissures came the Buried Firsts.
Not characters.
Not voices.
Beginnings.
Scrapped openers, forgotten pilots, first chapters deemed "too raw," "too niche," "too broken to lead with." They emerged with jagged grammar and wild syntax, every one of them unfinished—
But not unworthy.
One whispered in ellipses.
"I was her first name before she chose a safer one."
Another growled in all caps.
"I HELD THE ORIGINAL ANGER."
