The final space opened without resistance.
No mirror. No archive. No record.
Just scale.
The room extended farther than I could see. Along the floor, faint markings repeated. Paths worn in by passage, not design.
I understood what this was without being told.
Projection.
Not punishment.
Not warning.
Continuation without intervention.
I stepped forward.
Figures appeared at distance. Not distinct. Not versions of me in costume or age. Just bodies moving with familiarity. Entering rooms early. Leaving impact behind them. Adjusting themselves faster than anyone could ask.
The pattern held.
A figure paused. Noticed imbalance. Stepped into it. Absorbed strain. Smoothed outcome. Continued moving.
No one thanked them.
No one stopped them.
I felt the pull in my chest, the readiness I recognized from earlier rooms. The impulse to step forward and improve flow.
No barrier prevented me.
No command restrained me.
This was what made it unbearable.
I saw how cleanly it could go on.
No collapse.
No crisis.
No cost.
Just a life of being effective enough to disappear inside.
The room did not argue.
The system did not break.
Nothing here wanted me harmed.
It wanted me operational.
I stood at the threshold between participation and refusal. Both were equally supported.
The widening wasn't a threat.
It was capacity.
I understood then:
what I had called love, what I had called care, what I had called strength,
were not lies.
They were incomplete.
And they would keep working for as long as I let them.
The room stayed open.
No closure followed.
Only the widening, steady and unafraid.