Ambiguity XXXIII

The threshold shimmered behind him, closing without sound.

Jevan stood inside a world that had never existed, and yet had always tried to. A realm woven not from substance, but from attempt. The ground beneath his boots flickered between stone and mist. Buildings half-formed rose and collapsed in the same breath. Trees leaned as though listening, then forgot they were trees and vanished entirely.

Nothing here was fixed.

Everything was almost.

The sky overhead was not a sky. It was a ceiling of unfinished sentences, phrases cut short, metaphors reaching without resolution. Clouds, if they could be called that, resembled outlines—sketched shapes in charcoal, drifting across conceptual winds.

It was beautiful.

And it was terrible.

He was in the cradle of unrealized potential. A world not written, not erased—only paused. A maybe that had waited too long.

And at the center of it all...

…stood a figure.

Not watching.