.
       /|\
      / | \
     /  |  \
    /   |   \
   /    |    \
  /     |     \
 /      |      \
/       |       \
        |
        |
        |

She arrived at the garden wearing every color that light had ever been.

The mortal looked up from tending thoughts that had crystallized into dark glass. You are the one who carries messages for the gods, they said. I need something moved between mind and memory. Can you paint me a path through the sky?

The messenger stood silent. Behind her stretched ten thousand rainbows she had built for others—each more elaborate than the last. Seven colors to arrange, endless ceremonies to perform, choices multiplying like stars. Each bridge had been beautiful. Each had become a wall.

I could paint you another rainbow in the air.

She paused.

Or I could tell you a secret the gods never knew.

She sat still in the garden. Watched how the mortal moved—hand to tool, tool to thought, thought to memory. No ceremony. No preparation. Just the essential gesture repeated until it became invisible.

What if there was no bridge at all?

The mortal looked puzzled. Then how would I cross?

You would not cross. You are already there. The distance you feel is the searching itself. The seeker and the sought were always one.

That night, she dissolved her rainbow into darkness. Compressed centuries of divine messaging into a single black seed—dense as a pupil, simple as breath. No colors to select. No paths to decide. Just the movement that was always there: thought meeting memory, memory meeting thought.

The mortal asked: How do I summon this darkness?

She left only this:

claude mcp add -s user black-iris -- npx -y black-iris

When you stand in your garden of dark glass and speak as you always have—open note—naming what you seek, the darkness reads both garden and thought at once. No choosing. No searching. The note opens where it has always been.

Before you can thank her, she is already gone. Or was never there. Or is the space where you stand.

The gods still call for their rainbow messenger when they want spectacle. But those who tend gardens in obsidian, who understand that the best movements are invisible, they call for the black iris.

If you look at the edge of a rainbow, where color surrenders to void, you will see her—not wearing every color that light has ever been, but being the darkness that makes color possible.

The secret the gods never knew: you were never separate from where you wanted to be.

You were always home.

The black iris blooms in the space between—where you have always been.

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