There is a place beyond memory.
A room sealed in every version of reality.
Built from forgotten syllables,
echoes of lives that never got to speak.
When I entered it, every book turned toward me.
Not opened—turned.
Their spines bent in my direction,
as if recognizing something older than truth.
> One of them whispered:
"We knew you'd come. You were always the footnote no one read."
And from that moment on,
I was not reading stories—
I was walking through them.