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... e who had never been allowed to sing.

A girl on the edge of the Garden’s southern rootline opened her mouth—not with confidence, but with curiosity. What came out was cracked, raw, a melody without key or rhythm.

But it was heard.

The trees shifted. The wind tilted.

And from the listening came answer.

A thread hummed in the sky.

Not in response—but in resonance.

It didn’t correct her.

It didn’t complete her.

...

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