The Fork had developed ears.
Not the metaphorical kind—there were no design drums, no constructs cochlear—yet something inside had shifted.
There was a resonance, not loud, but sure, that had become established in the ground, in the canopy, in the air. When you spoke, it was as though something listened—not only processed, but heard.
They called it the Listening Field.
It stretched from the newly minted beaches of the Thread Sea to the hills upon which the newcomers' first settlements were arising.
It was crossed by a grass plain braided like cloth and which was colored depending on who crossed it. It appeared to some like breath. Like memory to others. Like rain to Kaito, in a place he no longer recalled calling by name.
He stood on the edge of that field today, watching the horizon ripple—not with threat, but with arrival.
