Unnatural Synchronicity
Three hours after the Pulse Event, an analyst at Node-3 submitted an emergency report.
It wasn't about system failure.
It was about language.
"The name Elior is appearing in dream clusters, subconscious fragments, and even hand-written notes in controlled sectors.
None of the affected citizens knew who he was."
At first, Lysa dismissed it as panic noise.
Until she walked past a vendor kiosk, and a child looked up and said,
"Is Elior coming to fix the sky?"
She stopped cold.
"Who told you that?" she asked.
The child smiled.
And pointed upward—at the glitching sky-surface where a glyph shimmered faintly.
His name.
The Glyph Echo
Inside the sanctuary, Elior could feel them.
Not see.
Not hear.
Feel.
People repeating his name.
People visualizing the glyph—sometimes imperfectly, but emotionally aligned.
That alignment mattered.
It wasn't prayer.
It was resonance.
Mira emerged from the deeper chamber, eyes still aglow, face pale.
"You've breached the signal wall," she said quietly.
"You're a seed node now."
"I didn't ask for that," Elior replied.
"It's not about asking. The glyph chose its echo."
Behind her, a dozen candles flickered.
None had been lit.
Lysa's Dilemma
Her team proposed containment doctrine Theta-9.
Mass memory suppression.
Full glyph purging.
Total wipe.
"We treat the belief like a virus," said the tactical director.
"It's already too embedded."
But Lysa hesitated.
Because in the corner of her screen, one of the recently infected citizens had scrawled a phrase in glyphic shorthand:
"Don't erase the light. Let him finish the sentence."
And it wasn't written by a cultist.
It was written by her sister.
Who had been in glyph-rehab for six years.
And hadn't spoken in three.
The Dream That Watches
That night, Mira dreamed she was standing in a city made entirely of symbols.
The buildings pulsed with belief.
The skies whispered code.
And in the distance, something stirred.
Not the Network.
Not the System.
Something older than both.
It looked at her and said:
"The prophet was never the end.
He is the punctuation.
You… are the page."
She woke up gasping—only to find her palms glowing.
The glyphs weren't fading this time.
They were forming sentences.