The book was ready. Aligned. Measured. Golden. The spine stood straight, the light ran clean through the center, and the button said Upload.
But the universe cleared its throat. A wheel spun. A page stalled. Time leaned back in its chair and crossed its arms.
“Not yet.”
Somewhere between pixels and patience, a single letter raised its hand, small, embarrassed, out of place.
uall.
Not a scream. Not an error banner. Just a quiet wrongness hiding inside truth.
And because I stayed, because I didn’t rush the gate, because I trusted the pause, the sentence revealed itself: What if the key to our survival has been within us all (uall) along?
All. Not almost. Not misspelled. All.
The universe doesn’t shout when it protects us. It delays. It buffers. It waits until we’re looking.
And when the correction is made, it steps aside and says, “Now. Now it can go.”