The lattice no longer expanded outward in straight lines of conquest or curiosity alone. It curved now, folding back upon itself in patterns that resembled the slow spiral of galaxies viewed from far above, or the whorls in a fingerprint pressed against warm glass. Worlds that had once been frontier outposts became waystations where travelers paused not to rest but to remember. Ships no longer carried crews so much as they carried choirs: living vessels whose hulls sang continuously, harmonizing with the lattice to maintain coherence across distances that once would have shattered any signal.
Home remained the quiet center, though fewer permanent residents called it that anymore. Most who returned did so for a season, or a decade, or simply to stand once more beneath the twin trees and fe
