[Recovered Fragment – Journal of the One Who Dreamed the Path]

I should’ve buried this page. Burned it. Let time swallow it like it did the rest of us.

But the echoes don’t fade.

Not really.

I was young when I first heard it—not from a god, or machine, or dream—but from the silence. That silence between lightning and thunder… between one dying breath and the next. It whispered the shape of what would come. And I wrote it down. Not because I wanted to remember—
but because I knew the world would try to forget.

When the sky fractures and the ground forgets its name,
four echoes shall rise—one from flame, one from storm, one from stone, and one from truth.

They will not be born to rule.
They will not be chosen for strength.

They will be remembered for their scars.

We always thought power would save us. We were wrong.
It’s what breaks us that reveals what we really are.

Each of them will carry a mark—
not gifted, but earned in pain.

One of guilt.
One of fear.
One of shame.
One of silence.

These aren’t titles. They’re wounds.
I named them so they would know what they were walking into.

Together, they will awaken the sleeping core.
Not to save what was lost—
but to heal what was broken.

And silence the hollow voice
that would twist the world into one mind.

Some will call them monsters.
Others will call them myths.

But if they survive what’s coming… they may become something else entirely.

They will not be remembered for what they destroyed—
but for what they chose to forgive.

I never told them who I was.
I hope they never find out.

But if they do...

Tell them I tried.
Tell them I was afraid.
And tell them...
I still am.