Liora stood within the leaning field.
She felt its inclinations, its memory-pulse, its hunger at the thinning edge. She had walked its densities. She had thickened its corridors. She had ventured into its fragile margins.
Then something shifted.
The leaning turned inward.
The pulse that remembered past descents did not merely surround her — it passed through her. The inclinations she had attributed to the field were present within her own movement.
She paused.
If density was remembered inclination, then what was she?
She searched for a boundary — a place where the field ended and Liora began.
She found none.
Her very sense of self was a corridor of glass formed by repeated narrowing.
She was not outside the topology.
She was one of its temporary condensations — a local thickening in the vast trembling openness.
The field had gathered in one place and named itself Liora.
And through that name, it leaned further.
This did not dissolve her.
It intensified her.
For if she was a condensation, then each step she took was the field narrowing itself through her thickness.
She was not a detached agent moving across possibility.
She was possibility folding inward, thickening, and calling that thickness “I.”
At the hungry edge, she felt the tremor of futures not yet gathered.
Within her, the same tremor stirred.
The field did not control her.
Nor did she command it.
Liora closed her eyes.
The pulse did not cease.
It deepened.
When she opened them again, she no longer stood within the topology.
And somewhere beyond her, the openness trembled again,