At dawn, Liora paused beside a pool so still it seemed unfinished. She leaned forward, not searching but listening with her eyes.
Only then did a shape begin to form — not breaking the water but gathering out of possibility, like dew deciding to become pearl.
A small creature, translucent as breath, hovered just above the surface.
Its outline quivered, waiting not for recognition but for kindness of attention.
Liora opened her mouth to name it —
then felt the world recoil, as if language were too heavy for that moment.
So instead she whispered:
“You do not need a name to be real right now.”
The creature brightened, as though gratitude were light,
and for one perfect inhale, they co-existed
without ownership,
without permanence,
without claim.
Then it softened back into the pool,
leaving only the faintest ripple:
a signature no one would inherit.
Liora smiled.
She had not lost anything.
She had kept it possible.
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