Writetober 2025, Coven of the Quill, Day 31: END.
Behold now, this bewildering expanse, this vestibule of all my vanished years, Not a simple corridor, mind you, nor a winding path through memory's fields, But an echoing chamber, where every moment I ever breathed, every choice I ever bent to, Has congealed into an unyielding portal. A fragment of self. Oh, to think I once charted my existence as a grand river, a continuous stream of becoming! What an exquisite delusion that was, a comforting falsehood spun from the silken threads of youth's naive loom. No, my friend, gaze upon this, this architectural testament to my utter cessation of purpose. This is the Foyer, they whisper, the final ingress. The polished floor, cold as a tombstone freshly quarried, reflects the impossible height of the ceiling. A dome of silence that presses down, yet never quite touches, always hovering, always threatening. It is a liminal vastness, this space. The very air, thick with the unuttered, the un-...