The wheat turned grey on the first day of autumn.
Not dry. Not dead. Grey, like someone had drained the color from every stalk. The farmers touched the grain and their fingers came away dust. Not ash. Something finer. Something that had never been alive.
Sarah knelt at the edge of the field, rubbing the grey powder between her fingers.
"The Unnamed?"
No, the void said. The Unnamed sleeps without dreaming. This is something else.
"Something new?"
Something old. Older than the Unnamed. The silence before the first thought.
---
Elara arrived from the farmhouse at a run.
"The eastern orchard. The trees are turning grey. The apples feel like stone."
"The same thing?"
"Worse. The ground under the trees is cracking. Not from heat or cold. From absence."
Sarah stood. "Absence of what?"
