There was no up or down.
No sky. No floor.
Just the hum.
It wasn't sound.
It was intention.
Julia opened her eyes and saw—
Not stars.
Not void.
But a vast, spiraling structure made of memory and light. Rooms floated in the dark like lanterns on a current. Each was slightly different—some square, some circular, some open and exposed to nothing, others layered in translucent walls and shifting color.
They pulsed like thoughts.
She floated, weightless.
But not drifting.
The place knew she was here.
It was holding her.
And in the air—or whatever passed for air—a line of symbols unraveled, slowly, curling like vines:
THIS PLACE REMEMBERS YOU
She touched her chest.
The glyph still burned faintly under her skin—but it was quieter now.
Not dormant.
Just no longer alone.
"Where am I?" she asked, though there was no one to hear her.
The spiral answered.
Not in words.
In pull.
One of the floating rooms drifted closer.
Its walls shimmered. Then split open like petals.
