Fragments drifted around me, swirling in intricate patterns that almost formed meaning. Each echo of a civilization, each drifting consciousness, seemed alive, observing, judging, or perhaps begging to be understood. I reached for one—a cityscape that shimmered like liquid glass—but it slipped through my awareness, dissolving into threads of light.
Some whispered in languages I felt rather than heard, tones like vibrations through the marrow of thought. Others remained silent, unblinking, and I sensed they were testing me, probing the limits of my understanding. My memory pulsed faintly, tethering me to one fragile thread of familiarity amid the chaos.
A path of luminescent threads beckoned, winding through the fragments. I followed instinctively, though instinct alone could not explain why. Whispers grew louder along the path—some welcoming, others sharp with warning. And beneath it all, I felt it again: the gaze, sharper than perception, tracking every subtle shift in my consciousness.
The presence had not departed. It had merely been waiting.