Heaven has roots. They hang below the world, in a dark the maps refuse, and lantern-seeds grow on them like promises. You are a spark that slipped its lantern. The Hush beneath is patient, and mirror-still, and always rising somewhere. Cross the Underbough. Stay bright. Stay aloft.
You made a fine arc of yourself.
You came the whole way, and the light was still warm.
The roots hold their breath.
The cabinet could not reach its shelf — three.js did not arrive. The Underbough needs one small library, fetched once from a pinned CDN.