5 The Corridor of Almost-Remembering

That night, Liora dreamed —

or perhaps the dream chose her

because she had brushed too close

to the hinge of necessity.

She found herself in a corridor

built from unfinished moments,

its walls flickering with

all the things that might have happened

but never made it as far as phenomenon.

The air smelled faintly of

ink that had not yet learned its alphabet.

At regular intervals

stood tall glass panels,

and inside each one

floated a version of Liora:

not false,

not alternate,

but adjacent.

Some held their breath;

some whispered words

no one had decided yet;

some carried faint traces

of events that had almost occurred.

Liora walked slowly,

realising she was moving through

the side-effects

of her own thought.

She stopped at one panel.

Inside it, she saw

the moth-being

still frozen —

not suffering,

not trapped,

but held in semantic suspension,

as if waiting to see

what she would now understand.

The adjacent-Liora in the panel

looked up,

not panicked,

but curious in a quieter way

than Liora remembered ever being.

“Did it hurt?”

Liora asked.

Panel-Liora shook her head

with the calmness of

someone who had learned

from the future of a moment

that had not yet fully started.

“It didn’t hurt,” she said,

“but it stopped becoming.”

The corridor rippled.

Liora felt an ache

that didn’t belong to regret,

but to recognition:

she had not damaged the world —

only paused its unfolding.

Panel-Liora leaned closer until

the two versions were

almost face-to-face.

“It’s not wrong to wish

to know more,”

she whispered,

“but knowledge is not the prize

of holding,

only the by-product of willingness.”

The corridor walls

exhaled in agreement.

Liora closed her eyes

and released the version of herself

who needed certainty

before wonder.

When she opened them again,

the panels softened

into gentle colour

and began dissolving

into possible dawn.

As the corridor faded

back into sleep’s remainder,

she heard her own voice

from nowhere in particular:

“Meaning is not kept safe

by staying —

only by continuing to become.”

She woke with tears

that did not taste like sorrow,

but like unlearned water.