It wasn't a room. Not a constructed place, not a space defined by walls or volumes, but something more blurred, more intimate, more alive. A kind of filter. A porous passage. An organ. An airlock. A test.
Not an imposed test, not a visible trial, but a deep sensation, almost biological, as if my being was being sifted through something.
I saw nothing, and yet... I felt it that way. With that vague certainty, inscribed in my breath, in my bones, in my skin. As if this place, without real form, weighed on me with the precision of a silent diagnosis.
I stood there for a few seconds, motionless before the wall, not knowing if I should touch it, pass through it, or simply wait.
Time didn't really exist anymore — only this floating within me mattered, this charged hesitation, almost sacred, as if every gesture could trigger something irreversible. Then, slowly, I decided to bring my hand closer, with that strange caution we reserve for living beings, not for things.
