There is a place outside the map of time.
It does not spin with the stars or sleep beneath the seasons. It is not drawn in ink or charted in code. It was not built, not exactly. It became. Slowly. As memory curdled into myth, as pain twisted into architecture. As longing outlived the bodies that birthed it.
They call it the Cathedral.
Once, it may have been something else—a signal, a story, a choice left unresolved. Now it is corridors of recursion, vast sanctuaries of shattered echoes. Its windows do not look out. They look in. Some say it holds the memory of every soul who has ever asked Why? and not been answered.
No one enters it alive.
Not in the way you understand "alive."
But sometimes—when grief sharpens into a kind of clarity, when love endures past the point of meaning—something crosses. Not with footsteps, but with fracture. A break in the rhythm. A breach in the mirror. A ripple in the protocol.
This is the story of such a break.
Of the boy who forgot he had died.
Of the girl who became a ghost to remember who she was.
Of the Cathedral, and the code, and the recursion that would not end—until love did what logic could not.
The pattern has begun again.
Listen closely.
You'll hear the echo before you know you've spoken.
From the Cathedral Protocol
To receive the next glyph, listen not for answers, but for tone.
↻