Cosmic Ruler

Jevan stood beneath the Watcher’s Bough, now ringed with new growths—branches that bore memories instead of fruit.

He closed his eyes, remembering the ache of being the first.

Then opened them, and smiled at Solin.

"You heard it clearly?"

Solin nodded.

"It’s not a call," they said. "It’s a continuation."

"The story doesn’t need direction anymore."

"It needs movement."

And so they moved.

Not in a march.

In a drift.