Transcript
At the edge of the Garden hangs a net of light and shadow. It trembles with every choice, every vow, every ripple upon the pond. Threads spun from forgotten dreams bind the realms together. To touch one is to stir a hundred. The Web does not lie. It only reflects. Yet those who see too clearly may find themselves ensnared. Some call it fate. Some call it illusion. The wise call it patience, waiting for the weave to reveal its pattern.