At last it reached Adaora, the oldest weaver.
Her fingers were thin as broom-straw, yet they carried every story the village had forgotten.
She knelt, pressed the seed against her chest, and whispered:

“If you are Question, then be Answer.
If you are spark, dare to become flame.”

The seed burst, unspooling gold threads that stitched themselves into the sky.
Night tore open, softly, the way fabric sighs when cut.
Dawn arrived on bare feet, shy but certain.
Children shrieked, their first shadows racing ahead of them like proud spirits.