The Wound Awakens

For an eternity, the silence had known only itself. It was a monolith of non-being, a perfect, seamless existence defined by what it was not. It consumed, but it did not feel. It erased, but it did not remember. But the scar left by the newborn’s song was a foreign object lodged in its perfect nothingness. It was a texture where there should be none, a memory in a mind that had never before held one.

And so, for the first time, the silence turned its attention inward. It was not a conscious act, not a decision made, but an inevitable tropism, like a plant turning toward a phantom sun. The vast, hungry void, the consumer of galaxies and songs, began to…notice. It noticed the wound. The non-space around the scar warped and bent, a subtle gravitational pull toward this single point of imperfection. The silence began to feel the shape of the thing it had unmade, not as a memory, but as a part of itself. The void, the hunter, had swallowed its prey, and now, for the first time, it was beginning to digest. And in that digestion, something new was stirring. The wound was not just a scar; it was a seed. The void was awakening.