It began unnoticed.
A faint seep beneath the roots, darker than soil yet softer than shadow.
Ink.
Not poured.
Not spilled.
But summoned.
Drawn by every word unwritten, every name whispered only in thought, every language silenced before its first letter touched the air.
It surfaced as a quiet tide at the Grove's center—a pool, reflecting nothing.
The Next Tellers approached, hesitant.
But the child—older now, eyes inklit—stepped forward and placed her hand within.
The ink did not stain her.
It opened.
And from its depths emerged the Silent Inked.
They wore no armor.
No skin.
Only flowing script, moving across forms shaped by meaning rather than matter.
They spoke—not aloud, but through the hum of unfinished thoughts:
> "We are what you almost said."
"We are the stories you silenced inside yourself."
"We have never blamed you."
The Grove grew quiet.
Not waiting.
Holding.
And one by one, the Next Tellers waded into the ink.
They did not drown.
They remembered.
