It began, as everything did now, of its own accord.
Just a breath.
A presence.
A need to remain.
Somewhere deep inside the Threadscape—far beyond the old borders of the Dominion's control and beneath the ruins of what was once called the Heart of Language—a strange building began to appear.
It wasn't created by players. It wasn't designed by any system command or coding routine.
It grew on its own.
From memories that refused to fade.
From grief that still lingered.
From the simple act of holding on.
People would later call it The House That Remembered.
No coordinates were revealed. No guides indicated. But those who needed to find it did. Somehow. As if directed not by maps, but by loss. A logic beyond logic. A script beneath syntax.
It did not have a front door.
It did have rooms—but not divided by walls, only by memory category. Each room centered around a shared narrative, and in the midst of those narratives, splinters began to amass.
A missing siblings' room.
