Lira wrote.
The way others breathed.
She didn't force meaning onto the world—she uncovered it, layer by layer, like brushing dust from a half-buried fossil. Her words didn't thunder or command. They whispered. They asked. And reality… answered.
Where her pen moved, small things shifted.
Dead roots stirred under soft soil.
A cracked wall mended with moss and memory.
A forgotten name returned to a grandfather's lips like a childhood song.
The villagers watched at first with reverence. Then, with fear. Then, with something deeper.
Hope.
But the pen was not just a tool.
It listened.
And Lira soon learned that what she wrote could not be taken back—not without cost.
She tried to fix everything. A girl's limp. A mother's grief. A failed harvest.
The words responded, yes—but behind each miracle was a consequence.
The healed leg walked too far and fell into the ravine.
The mother's grief turned to numb silence, severing her from the living.
