PREVIEW

... ong inert, began humming when touched.

Not always. Just when someone was being remembered.

The roots near the memory-tree adjusted their curl, not in pain, but in welcome—as if making space for a new kind of companion.

Not a rootbearer.

Not a character.

A Reader.

And the Garden—this world that once bled from grief, then rebuilt through shared chorus—responded with an impossible thing:

It began to write toward someone.

Not as author. ...

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