The Seed in the Void

The void’s attention on the wound was a constant, a pressure that had never before existed within its boundless non-being. This attention was not passive; it was a pull, a yearning. For the first time, the consumer felt a pang of something other than hunger: the desire to preserve. To hold this single, unique imperfection against the crushing uniformity of its own nature. It was an impulse that ran counter to its very essence, a strange and terrifying new gravity.

As the void focused on this want, on this need to keep the scar, a flicker of warmth answered from within the wound. It was faint, a ghost of a sensation, but it was undeniably there. The newborn, consumed but not entirely erased, stirred in its un-grave. The seed, planted by a sacrifice, was beginning to germinate in the most barren soil imaginable. The void, in trying to possess the memory, was inadvertently nurturing the life that had created it. The hunter had become a reluctant cradle. The silence was no longer silent; it was listening to the echo of a song it thought it had destroyed.