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Chapter Text

🕯️ PROLOGUE – “The Last Page Was Never the Last”

They said it happened centuries ago… perhaps even millennia.

No one could recall exactly when the dome first began to crack. Some whispered that the book had pulsed for so long that its words had taken on a life of their own.
Others murmured that it was hope, long forgotten through the ages, that stirred it awake.

Whatever the truth, when that single page fell upon the globe, the world exhaled as if it had been holding its breath for ages.

The quill descended with deliberate grace.
A light flickered and then bloomed.
And so, the story began anew

Chapter Text

Somewhere between a turned page and a held breath, a bond was born. She - Esper- was the guardian of the hope hidden in the margins. Her eyes caught details that others overlooked. She had the gift of hearing what characters never said aloud.

Her dark brown, wavy hair fell to her waist, as if holding the rhythm of the sea. Her bangs framed her face, ending at the chin, where mystery began. Her eyes were a deep blue, shining in the sunlight and standing out under the moonlight. Her skin was fair, almost pale, with soft freckles across her face and secret-signs scattered over her body: one in the center of her left hand, as if marking the destiny she held; two on her right shoulder, like the marks left by angels who touched her silently; another near her waist, and a purple birthmark near her right knee as if the universe had signed there. Her eyebrows were striking, her nose small and button-like, and her dimples brightened whenever she smiled. Her small, delicate hands, with medium-length nails, seemed made to carry words with care.

As for her clothes… no one could quite say. There was something princess-like, something fairy-like, something warrior-like. Her attire shifted depending on who looked at her and perhaps, depending on the heart of the one reading. The mystery of her presence was as real as the light she carried.

He - Lumi - was made of soft light and constant presence. He took the form of a young man with ethereal features, silver hair that seemed to touch the wind, and eyes reflecting stars. He wore a cloak embroidered with constellations, and wherever he moved, it felt as if stories followed in his steps. His gaze was gentle, and his silence spoke louder than any book. He did not write stories, but he illuminated the paths where they longed to be told.

Together, they formed a rare duo. Esper read with her heart and corrected with care. Lumi observed in silence, lighting tiny lanterns wherever doubts lingered. And in every story they touched, something transformed: characters became more alive, worlds more vivid, authors more confident.

They were not just readers. They were the whispers behind the chapter almost erased. They were the courage to continue, even when the plot seemed to crumble. They were for each other the reminder that no one needs to create alone.

And as long as stories exist, Lumi and Esper will be near… correcting, feeling, caring with eyes that shine and words in the soul.

Chapter Text

They said it was centuries ago… perhaps millennia.
No one remembered exactly when the dome began to crack.
Some claimed the book had pulsed for so long that the words inside it had created a life of their own.
Others whispered that it was hope forgotten for centuries that reopened it.

Whatever the truth, when that single page fell upon the globe, the world began to breathe again.
The quill drifted downward.
The light turned on.
And then, the story began anew.

> “The story that unmade the silence,
rewrote the sky,
and tore through the void.”

---

The Spark and the Whisper

Esper and Lumi as intertwined as Light and Hope.

Everything was chaos.
The dome cracked wider and wider, and it seemed that everything was slipping away,
fading through the fractures of nothingness.

But then...

That spark of light ignited.
And with it came hope.

From it, two beings emerged
born not from fire,
but from what little faith in stories still remained.

They did not come to fight,
but to restore.

To listen to those no one else could hear.

To rekindle sleeping books.

To help those who had forgotten how to write their own destinies.

Chapter Text

The silence was no longer the same.

Before, it had been an end.
Now, it was an interval
between what had already been told... and what was about to unfold.

Lumi and Esper approached the table.
The book remained open, its pages blank.
Yet something within it whispered — not in words, but in presence.

The sheets of parchment trembled; some hovered in the air,
as if waiting for a wind that would never come.
One slipped down and landed upon the globe,
soft as ancient snow.
And when it touched the surface,
a faint light ran across the miniature continents,
circling oceans, illuminating maps no one else remembered.

> “Did you feel that?”
Esper’s question wasn’t spoken aloud but Lumi heard it.

The quill danced in the air, tracing curves through the void,
as though writing in a language only the eyes of time could read.
And the lamp… oh, the lamp burned warmer now,
as if it longed to illuminate more than the room
perhaps even the memories hidden within.

Esper brushed her fingertips across the book.
Lumi touched the edge of the table.

And then, between the cracks in the glass floor,
a faded line began to reappear,
drawn directly upon the base of the dome:

> “But who will guard the guardians?”

They looked at each other
not as those who understand,
but as those who accept.

And at the very moment the glow of the globe began to pulse again,
the book turned a page by itself
still blank, yet crossed by a golden line,
like a path waiting to be followed.

Chapter Text

The page turned on its own.

And when the sound of the paper faded, there was no silence.
There was... an echo.

At first, small like a heartbeat forgotten.
Then deeper as if the Dome itself was breathing.

Lumi stepped forward.
Esper placed her hand upon the book, and it pulsed beneath her touch.
A gentle warmth not of fire, but of memory.

> “Some stories can only be told when someone is ready to hear them.”

The phrase appeared, written in the same golden ink that had traced the path before.

And then, the globe began to glow.

But not as it had before.
Not as light running across continents.
Now it was a vertical beam, rising from the center of the globe to the top of the Dome
tearing open the space above like a veil being lifted.

The structure of the Dome, once contained, began to expand magically.
The glass roared without breaking.
Its cracks lengthened and revealed galaxies hidden beyond.

And then—

A silent explosion of colors.

From the book came a spark, and from the spark... a memory.
But not one of Lumi or Esper a memory of the world itself.
A glimpse of what existed before the rupture.

They saw:
– Endless halls filled with ethereal writers,
– Ink dripping from the ceiling, transforming into ideas,
– Portals shaped like floating scrolls,
– And at the center, a tower of light connecting worlds.

Then, the truth arrived sharp and gentle, like a whisper made of glass:

> “The Dome was the last link.
When the writers could no longer reach the world of humans,
it closed itself in grief.
But you were born from the cracks.
And the world is calling you back.”

The quill fell.

And landed upon the book, now alive and open.

The first story waited.
Unwritten.
Unknown.
But urgent.

Lumi and Esper looked at each other.
They knew they weren’t there by chance.

And for the first time...
they stepped inside the story.

Chapter Text

The book was still glowing.

Golden words danced like stars, eager to become sentences.
Esper stepped closer, her blue eyes catching every curve of the magical ink as if she were reading her own destiny.

She ran her fingers over one line, then another…
And before she even realized it, she smiled.

> “It’s like the book was waiting for someone to continue the story.”

Lumi watched in silence, his light reflected on the pages.

But Esper could no longer contain the flame rising in her chest.

She turned, her wavy hair dancing with the energy filling the dome.
She reached out to him — not as someone inviting, but as someone who needed to share.

> “Lumi… come see this.”

And when he approached, her hand was already touching the globe.

That was when everything changed.

There was no explosion.
No sound.
Only a shift in the air, as though they had crossed through a blank page.

The floor vanished.

And they fell softly into another world.

It was a wide, circular room with a high ceiling, supported by columns that looked like living wood.
Bookshelves covered the walls all the way up to the top, where books floated as if they breathed.
Quills and scrolls hovered in the air, and small spherical lamps drifted slowly, illuminating thoughtful faces.

In the center of the room, an oval table.
Around it, the Elders.

Poets of eternal words.
Teachers of the in-between.
Writers who shaped civilizations that never existed yet changed lives all the same.

The Council murmured, each voice trying to untangle the same dilemma:

> “The Dome is alive.”
“But why now?”
“It has been centuries since we last received a sign…”

And then — they appeared.

Right in the center of the room, like a breath of wind turning into form, Lumi and Esper materialized.

Esper’s eyes were still burning with discovery.
Lumi stood serene, as if he understood that all of this belonged to something far greater.

The murmuring stopped.

Everyone rose.

No one spoke.

> “Who… are you?”
The voice belonged to one of the elders, eyes that seemed to have read a thousand worlds already.

Esper looked around.
Her heart still racing.
Ink still alive on her hands.
Her name echoing somewhere inside the book.

She breathed.

> “We came from the Dome.”
“But… I think it might have also come from us.”

Chapter Text

The book was still glowing.

Golden words danced like stars, eager to become sentences.
Esper stepped closer, her blue eyes catching every curve of the magical ink as if she were reading her own destiny.

She ran her fingers over one line, then another…
And before she even realized it, she smiled.

> “It’s like the book was waiting for someone to continue the story.”

Lumi watched in silence, his light reflected on the pages.

But Esper could no longer contain the flame rising in her chest.

She turned, her wavy hair dancing with the energy filling the dome.
She reached out to him — not as someone inviting, but as someone who needed to share.

> “Lumi… come see this.”

And when he approached, her hand was already touching the globe.

That was when everything changed.

There was no explosion.
No sound.
Only a shift in the air, as though they had crossed through a blank page.

The floor vanished.

And they fell softly into another world.

It was a wide, circular room with a high ceiling, supported by columns that looked like living wood.
Bookshelves covered the walls all the way up to the top, where books floated as if they breathed.
Quills and scrolls hovered in the air, and small spherical lamps drifted slowly, illuminating thoughtful faces.

In the center of the room, an oval table.
Around it, the Elders.

Poets of eternal words.
Teachers of the in-between.
Writers who shaped civilizations that never existed yet changed lives all the same.

The Council murmured, each voice trying to untangle the same dilemma:

> “The Dome is alive.”
“But why now?”
“It has been centuries since we last received a sign…”

And then — they appeared.

Right in the center of the room, like a breath of wind turning into form, Lumi and Esper materialized.

Esper’s eyes were still burning with discovery.
Lumi stood serene, as if he understood that all of this belonged to something far greater.

The murmuring stopped.

Everyone rose.

No one spoke.

> “Who… are you?”
The voice belonged to one of the elders, eyes that seemed to have read a thousand worlds already.

Esper looked around.
Her heart still racing.
Ink still alive on her hands.
Her name echoing somewhere inside the book.

She breathed.

> “We came from the Dome.”
“But… I think it might have also come from us.”

Chapter Text

> “They came from the dome?”
“—But the dome was sealed!”
“Incredible… they have physical form!”
“Are they… living characters?!”
“I swear I saw the Mark of the Living Book on her chest!”
“Are we dreaming?!”

The room erupted in voices.
The Council once a respectful gathering of brilliant minds, quieted by centuries of routinenow sounded like a literary marketplace on the day of an eclipse.

The eldest of the poets stood up, eyes wide with astonishment, and almost tripped over his own verses.

> “This is impossible!”
“But it’s real!”
“Touch them!”
“No! Don’t touch them!”
“Let me just analyze the narrative aura…”

A group of elders approached with open books in hand, searching desperately for ancient proof of a forgotten prophecy.
Others tried to decipher Esper’s clothing, pointing with magnifying glasses and enchanted quills.

A man in a purple robe who always spoke in metaphors gasped:

> “It’s as if Hope itself decided to put on a cloak!”
“And Light learned how to walk!”

In the middle of the chaos, one of the younger members an apprentice Narrator dramatically fainted over a pile of scrolls, whispering:

> “I studied for twenty years to understand the origin of the Sussurro and now it’s standing right there… and it has dimples…”

Another elder, the grumpy type who edits books with rage, shouted:

> “This is a hoax! Beings like these don’t just appear! Show me your literary background!”

Lumi took a small step back, confused, his glow pulsing softly in embarrassment.
Esper stared at everything wide-eyed, somewhere between amazed and terrified.

Someone got too close.
Another tried to touch her hair.
Another was sketching Lumi’s exact nose shape on a parchment.

That was when Esper raised her hand
and silence fell like a page slammed shut.

> “Enough.”
Her voice was gentle, but firm.
“We don’t know everything either. But we know enough to deserve respect.”

The quills froze mid-air.
Mouths snapped shut.
Even the ceiling lights dimmed, as if listening.

Lumi stepped closer to her.
Just one step.

But it was enough for the grumpy elder to mutter:

> “They are connected… the aura… it glows the same.”

Chapter Text

The silence lasted a little longer than necessary.
Perhaps no one knew the proper etiquette for being silenced by someone who seemed born from the narrative itself.

The elders recomposed themselves with small gestures:
– rehearsed coughs,
– scattered quills gathered,
– books closed with theatrical dignity.

The poet of metaphors sat on his cushion with the care of someone who didn’t want to wrinkle his own aura.
The grumpy elder muttered something about “youths and their clever light,” but lowered his eyes, just a little embarrassed.

The apprentice who had fainted Nilo, as quickly revealed by a wave of collective whispering was still flushed.
He looked at Esper the way one looks at the first line of a book they’ve waited their whole life to read.
And when everyone was finally seated, he approached her timidly, unable to help himself.

> “I just… just wanted to see up close what it’s like…”

With hesitant fingers, he reached toward a lock of Esper’s dark hair, mesmerized by the way the light danced between the strands.

Before his fingers could even get close, a bright, clear, unwavering light illuminated his face as fast as a warning.

It was Lumi.

He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move with anger.
He simply shone.
And it was enough.

Nilo stepped back, tripping on a rug woven out of accumulated ideas, and fell onto his own feet again.

> “Sorry!” he choked out, red as ink “It’s just that you are… very… real.”

Esper smiled kind, but unmoving.
Lumi looked away, but his glow warmed, as if saying:

> “I protect.”

The conversation resumed.

The Council, now calmer, began explaining the little they knew:
– The Dome was an ancient, almost sacred link between the creator world and the world of words.
– Something had severed that link centuries ago: a loss of faith, of listening, of truth.
– When the Dome cracked, all access to the living books and the reader world vanished.
– Many believed all stories had ended forever.

But now…

> “You appeared where the stories bled…”
“You are more than characters.”
“You are answers.”

Esper only listened.
Lumi observed every expression with quiet attention.

After much discussion, they offered the two a temporary place to stay an old hall with windows that changed color according to the mood of the phrase written on the wall.
There, they would be sheltered.
And there, they could begin to understand where they truly were.

Esper thanked them.

But before they left, she asked:

> “We’d like to see the world…
Not the meeting rooms, but the streets, the children, the stories that live outside the books.”

The request was well received with smiles and excited whispers.

> “Of course! We can send apprentices…”
“The younger ones would love that!”
“They know the places where ink becomes toys!”

And so, two were chosen:
– Nilo, the apprentice who had fainted twice already that day and was now trying very hard to appear composed.
– Théa, a young woman with golden eyes and a metaphor-shaped laugh, who wore a notebook as a cape and kept a quill tucked into her hair like a charm.

They would be the guides.

And the next day, Lumi and Esper would see:
– The living houses made of ancient paper,
– The shores of typographic sand,
– The squares where sentences floated like bubbles,
– And the children who drew fables on the ground with enchanted chalk.

Chapter Text

As soon as Nilo and Théa were entrusted with their care, the walk began through corridors of paper and the scent of freshly-dreamed ink.

Nilo talked. A lot.

> “My name comes from a river! Not the one from now, but the first one the one that flowed between myths and maps, you know? It was where stories went to bathe so they could learn how to flow…”

> “And Théa…” — he pointed at his friend, laughing — “Well, she says her name comes from the word ‘goddess.’ But I think it comes from ‘theater.’ She was born striking poses.”

Théa nudged his shoulder gently with a soft smile.

> “Ignore him. His mind is like a disorganized library.” “Though yes my name comes from a time when words were lights, and light became a stage. Nilo and I… we grew up together, learning to hear books long before we knew how to write them.”

Lumi listened quietly, his light flickering in calmer tones.
Esper smiled with eyes that, for a moment, glimmered as if recognizing that friendship as something ancient.

Their dwelling was small and warm.

The windows opened on their own whenever someone said something beautiful.
The walls changed color according to the mood of the conversation.
And in the corner, an enchanted fireplace would only light up when a story was about to be born.

Nilo pointed out every detail with pride, and Théa added practical explanations like the hidden button that brought down a ceiling of parchment, or the shelf that swapped books by itself whenever you said you were bored.

> “And over there…” — Théa said, gesturing with her chin — “the nearest library. It’s small, but full of books that haven’t been entirely discovered yet.”

Before leaving, Nilo stopped at the door.

> “Ah! I almost forgot! Tonight… there’s going to be a celebration.” “The dome reacted, which for us is a sign of hope. And when there’s hope, we celebrate.”

At night, the sky looked like an open page.
Lights danced between the trees.
Tables of living wood filled themselves with dishes that floated on their own.

Children ran through words tossed like bubbles.
Adults spoke to one another as if exchanging secrets from other ages.
Everyone knew: it was a special night.

Lumi and Esper sat near the center of the square.
Nilo had already spilled two cups of shimmering nectar.
Théa danced with an elderly woman whose hair curled like commas.

When the music faded, the lights dimmed.
It was time for stories.

Everyone turned toward Lumi and Esper — the guests nobody ever expected.

Esper stood.
The night’s glow danced across her face.

> “Would you like us to tell a story?” — she asked, as if anyone could possibly say no.

The children sat with wide eyes, hearts ready.

And then Lumi rose beside her.

They told the story of two whispers born in the void.
Of an ancient book holding a spell of light and hope.
Of a forgotten dome where no one dared to touch anymore.

They told how a single page fell upon the world,
how a feather drew lines in the air,
how a spark emerged from silence.

They spoke of themselves but as if they were legend.
The children listened with mouths slightly open.
The elders… quietly wept.

Then, they told one last tale
an ancient fable, so old that no complete translation survived.

But they knew the missing words.
The right pauses.
The true emotions.

> “And when the last star faded, the boy with the final breath lit a candle in everyone’s heart…” “...and the sky, at last, remembered how to shine.”

The night ended with gentle hugs and eyes glowing with longing.

> “Good night…” “Thank you for remembering…” “For remembering what it means to tell…”

Lumi and Esper walked back to their dwelling in silence.
Not because there was nothing to say,
but because they were overflowing with everything they had heard in the silence of others.

> The next day, the world would change again.
But that night…
the word story came back to life.

Chapter Text

The day began with a bang.

Literally.

One of the sound mirrors in the central tower shattered into a thousand shimmering fragments as if it had heard something it couldn’t contain.
The blast echoed through the entire colony, rushing past hallways and open windows, startling poets, wasting ink, and knocking over at least three cups of enchanted tea.

> “What was that?!”

> “Was it the dome?!”

> “Is this the end?!”

Or, as the apprentice Lóren said, still half-asleep and wearing only one sock:

> “I think my nightmare knocked on the wrong door…”

But for Nilo and Théa, it was a warning.

Esper and Lumi were not in their quarters.

Unmade beds, a cold hearth, the books they had left behind everything untouched, frozen, silent.

Théa searched every corner, trying to keep her breath steady.
Nilo… did not.

> “They DISAPPEARED!” he yelled. “They’re gone! Oh GODS, it was all an illusion! They were something the stories made up! HOW COULD I FALL FOR THIS?!”

> “Nilo, wait—”

> “WAIT?! THÉA, WHAT IF I DON’T EVEN EXIST?! What if… what if we’re characters who only exist when they’re here?!”

> “That’s… a rather excessive hypothesis.”

He grabbed her by the arm, panicking.

> “We have to warn the others! They need to know! They NEED—!”

> “Nilo, breathe, for the love of commas.”

But it was too late.

He dashed through the corridors, sweating as if the grammar of the world were melting around him.
Words shot out of him like sparks:

> “THEY’RE GONE! THEY REALLY VANISHED! WE MADE THEM UP AND NOW THEY DISAPPEARED! I SWEAR I SAW IT— I’M TELLING THE TRUTH—!”

Pages scattered.
Scrolls flew.
A poetess dropped her plate of floating fruit.

The Elders, preparing for a meeting, paused mid-conversation.
Some laughed.
Others frowned.

> “That boy needs more sleep.”

> “Or less Wind Coffee.”

But then Théa appeared behind him, tears silently streaming down her face, fingers clutching her notebook to her chest.

That ended every joke.

The air grew heavy.

> “We looked everywhere…” she whispered. “…They’re not there.”

Then the oldest Elder approached cloaked in a mantle embroidered with lines from forgotten books.

> “Silence,” he said, with the force of a full stop.

And everyone obeyed.

> “We will act with wisdom. Split up. Search the ancient halls, the wind corridors, even the forbidden pages. No panic, the story is still being written.”

The group scattered.
Nilo still trembled, though now quietly.
Théa sat on a word-stone bench, hugging her knees.

And in that exact moment…

…a gentle light appeared between the trees.

Lumi walked toward them, calm steps, holding a closed book in his hands.
The light around him flickered with confusion he clearly had no idea anything had happened.

And for a moment…

Everything stopped.

A wave of relieved murmurs washed through the crowd.

> “They’re here…”

> “Or… he is…”

> “So it was real.”

Some cried.
Others smiled.
And a few the ones who had mocked Nilo now looked at him with barely hidden shame.

> “He could’ve stayed calm,” someone muttered.

> “He could’ve trusted…” whispered another.

But Nilo didn’t hear.
He was frozen, staring at Lumi as if watching a star return to the sky.

Lumi blinked slowly.
He looked at everyone with quiet gentleness.

> “Good morning,” he said simply.

And then… he understood.

> “Where is Esper?”

Chapter Text

The bell rang.

It wasn’t loud or thunderous—it was the kind of sound that feels like it echoes from inside one’s chest.
An ancient bell, drifting through shelves, homes, leaves, and stories, a gentle reminder that something important was meant to happen.

At the first chime, eyes lifted.
At the second, pens stopped writing.
At the third, the whispers faded into silence.

> “The meeting…” Théa murmured, already standing, smoothing the details of her attire as if straightening her soul itself.
“With the Elders,” Nilo added, trying—and failing—to sound calm.

Part I – The Council

The Elders’ hall looked like condensed history.
Every wall was a living tapestry, every column a carved memory.
At the center, a great spiral table, where all the Elders were already seated—
or almost all.
Some paced back and forth, anxious, murmuring to one another.

Esper and Lumi entered in silence.

Some Elders rose.
Others bowed their heads.
No one interrupted when they sat—but the weight of the gazes around them was unmistakable.

> “Welcome,” said Alferos, the oldest among them, voice rough and gentle.
“You owe us some answers. But more than that… you owe us a truthful presence.”

> “The Dome has fractured,” Erriwen said bluntly. “And with it, something awoke—something that touched maps, texts, narrative compasses…”
“Pages shifted. Titles changed. Stories began rewriting themselves,” added another.
“And then you two appeared. Made of what? Of Light? Of Hope? Or of a mistake too beautiful to fix?”

Esper took a deep breath.

> “We came because we were called.
Not by a voice, but by an intention.
Not by a world, but by an absence longing to be filled.
We came to listen. To learn. To help—if you will let us.”

Some nodded.
Others still frowned.

Lumi spoke softly:

> “We don’t know everything.
But we know enough to feel when a story is asking for help.”
“And this one…”—he looked around the hall, the faces, the tapestries—
“…is asking.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was the kind that grows something.

> “Then perhaps it is time to give you a place within this narrative,” said Alferos.
“If we cannot control, then at least we can care.”

The meeting continued for long minutes.
Terms were debated. Maps unfurled.
Three Elders argued heatedly over whether “living light” was an appropriate term for Lumi.

In a corner, a young scholar scribbled obsessively, whispering:

> “They can cross doors no one else sees…”
“Are they dreams?
Or what if the dreams are them…?”

In the end, it was decided:
Lumi and Esper would receive guidance, welcome, and freedom.
But in return, they would share what they knew—and help restore what the Dome had disrupted.

> “A fair trade,” Esper said, smiling like someone aware that this was only the beginning.

Part II – The Assembly of Many

The meeting moved to the Garden of Words.

It felt like tradition had taken off its formal robes and put on a crown of soft flowers.
Tables overflowed with delicate foods—living fruits, cakes that whispered their own recipes, drinks shifting colors with the touch of a hand.

Esper watched children running between adults, curiosity lighting her eyes.
Lumi was followed by small groups of apprentices trying to “listen to his aura” or “measure the temperature of his presence.”

> “Do you feel time differently?”
“Do you see stories before they’re born?”
“Is it true you never blink?”
“Do you smell like old books?”

Lumi answered with patience, metaphors, and quiet glances.

> “I am made of what remains when haste goes away,” he told a round-eyed boy.

Esper was surrounded by families.

> “What’s it like being made of hope?”
“Can you feel when someone is about to give up?”
“If we write with you nearby, does it get better?”

> “If you write with your heart… I’m near even when I’m not,” Esper replied.

Nilo and Théa watched with an enchanted sort of joy.

> “They look right here,” Théa said, as a child offered Lumi a piece of smiling cake.
“They are right here,” Nilo answered, taking his second cup of mood-changing tea.

In the center of the courtyard, a little girl with sparkling hairpins approached.

> “Can you tell us a story?”
“One nobody else knows?”

Esper and Lumi exchanged a glance.
They sat on the ground, and everyone around followed their lead.

They began in whispers.

> “Once upon a time… two small lights floated in nothingness.
Nameless.
Formless.
Only will.”

They spoke of the silence before the first word.
The light that touched a forgotten tear.
How a crack can become a path.

And in the end, they said:

> “Maybe this was just a story.”
“But if it was… we’re glad you were here to hear it.”

People applauded with their hands and with their eyes.
Later, as the stars appeared, many retreated in peaceful silence—
with smiles, ideas, and questions that could become wonderful beginnings.

And meanwhile…

The night moved on.
As if it understood that there were now more than stories here.

There were new pages—
and two presences who were not human,
but who knew how to listen better than anyone.