The handprint didn't fade.
It settled.
Softly. Fully. Without explanation.
By morning, moss had formed a gentle braid around the new tile, binding it not to the others, but to the ground. Not for permanence—for participation.
Kye returned before sunrise, drawn not by urgency but by gravity. Zeraphine sat nearby, her hands resting on her knees, her gaze low. Neither spoke.
They didn't need to revisit the moment. It had already joined the place.
The Chronicle hovered overhead, pulsing slowly, like breath held in shared trust.
Around the spiral path, others moved quietly, brushing ferns aside, pressing fingers to bark, offering small fragments to the waiting ground: feathers, scraps of woven bark, a single note hummed twice and left unfinished.
> ARTICLE ONE HUNDRED FOUR: Belonging is not something you keep—it's something that keeps you, even when you forget.
By midday, the breeze thickened with warmth. A new vine had begun to thread along the outer spiral, delicate but certain, trailing in the direction of the sea.
The children followed it.
Not to direct it.
To listen.
They placed shells along its line.
Some sang into the ocean wind.
Others whispered names.
No one stopped them. No one corrected them.
And when they returned, the vine had grown again.
Toward the horizon.
Zeraphine placed her palm on the ground beside the central ring. The soil pulsed once. Not in answer. In solidarity.
She turned to Kye. "Do you think we've done enough?"
He didn't hesitate.
"We stayed."
She smiled.
The Chronicle glimmered faintly.
Not with words.
With acknowledgment.
And as night fell, a soft arc of memorylight formed above the tile ring—not a gate. Not a border.
A reminder:
You were never timed.
You were only ever welcome.