You pry open the storage door while cleaning house, and a sour chill breathes over your skin as dust swirls like drowned gnats.
You tell yourself it is only lumber and rope, yet your cautious light finds runes gouged into beams and a heap of jars that whisper when you pass.
What answers you from the black joists is not sound but a patient idea unfolding behind your eyes, showing your name nested like a mite in a map of fathomless corridors where something has already learned your steps.
Saved at 2026-01-03 23:24 UTC
