The wind barely whispered across the plain, as though even it feared to disturb the stillness that clung to this strange space. Petals of midnight blue drifted through the open lattice doors, spiraling past carved eaves and gilded beams until they settled like whispers at his feet.
A man stepped forward slowly—silent, composed, a silhouette of dark silk and untold burdens. The scroll in his hand trembled once, but not from frailty. It bore the memory of the world: every achievement, every growth, every change, every evolution etched into the parchment—the weight of every deed, the essence of every name it carried.
Before him stretched a wall of light. No—of memory. Ancient calligraphy shimmered in suspended air, carved not onto stone but into the soul of the pavilion itself. Each character pulsed faintly, as though alive, drifting gently as they descended in endless vertical lines. A cathedral of unspoken voices.
He raised his hand.
