The sky-wound did not simply invert.

It turned inside out with the slow, irreversible certainty of a glove being peeled from a hand that had worn it too long.

What had been a scar in the air—a contested window into the first night—became a threshold with depth, with direction, with appetite. The mud of the original clearing, the dying body of the first Luna, the quiet light of the fourth temperature, and the absolute pressure of the original quiet all poured upward and outward at once, no longer bound to a single foundational location. Origin-soil that had been rising through the southern grounds reversed and climbed into the air like...