I didn't know when I had entered.
Not even if I had crossed anything.
A step, maybe.
An arch, maybe.
Or simply a heartbeat — one of those heartbeats that, sometimes, overturn reality without a sound.
And suddenly, the world had changed.
There were no more islets.
No more void.
No more abyss.
Everything had been erased. Recast. Swallowed into a foreign continuity, as if space itself had stopped breathing in fragments, as if the pieces had fused back into a single, fluid, indecipherable substance.
Just… a room.
A single room. Closed. Oval. Like an ancient womb, sculpted outside of time, outside of the world, without door or window, without threshold to cross or wall to push back. It didn't welcome. It contained.
And everything in it… was silence.
A silence without threat, without expectation, but heavy — with an invisible weight, a strange warmth.
Because the room was lit. Yes.