I entered a kind of room, but even that word seemed too rigid, too architectural to describe this place. It was a space, yes, but made of stretched, supple, living membranes, as if the world itself had folded in on itself to shape its interior.
Soft fibers lined the walls, woven together in a gentle, almost warm material that sent back no echo, no aggression. Everything seemed to breathe, slowly, in a vibrant stillness, as if I had just stepped into the hollow of an immense, patient, and silent being.
It wasn't very big, this room, no larger than a nook in a cave or a breath folded onto itself. But the silence here felt immense. Not oppressive. Not hostile. Immense in another way — like a sleeping sea, deep, vast, without anger, but endless, whose edges I could no longer see, as if every attempt at defining it dissolved in the smooth softness of this absence.
