The stone didn't just tremble. it sang.
In the center of the Carving Garden, a stone from the coasts of Sumatra began to release sound. Not echoes. Not whispers. But song. A melody never taught, never written, but heard by every soul. Children stopped playing. Elders stopped speaking. Everyone bowed, listening.
Yohwa approached. The song wasn't about past or future. It was about now. About wounds still open. About hopes still waiting. About honesty still struggling.
Rava wept. "This isn't echo," she said. "It's the song of the soul.
Numa tried recording the sound's pattern. But his instruments failed. The melody couldn't be written. It could only be felt. "This isn't frequency," he said. "It's presence."
Raka stood beside the stone. "In my season, there was a legend of the Singing Stone. A stone that spoke not with words, but with song. A song that could unite souls, but also erase the boundary between human and stone."
In the village, children began singing with the stone. But their voices changed. They no longer sounded like children. They sounded like echoes from the stone. As if humans and stone were beginning to merge.
Yohwa sat before the stone. He heard his own voice within the song. But it wasn't a voice he recognized. It was deeper, older, wider. He asked: "Is this me, or the stone?"
The Soul Eclipse approached. But this time, it sang too. Its voice wasn't frightening. Not threatening. It became part of the harmony.
Rava recorded: "This stone doesn't sing for us. It sings with us."
And that night, the entire garden became a choir. No boundary between human, stone, and sky. All sang. All became echoes. All became song.