Liora stood before a vast, shimmering field — not land, not sky, but possibility itself. It pulsed softly, as though waiting.
“How do I enter?” she asked.
“You don’t,” said the field. “You cut.”
She hesitated. “Will I damage you?”
“You will make me visible.”
She stepped forward.
At once, the field became a moment: a cry, a gesture, a phrase half-spoken. Around it, meaning condensed — not because it had travelled there, but because this was where the cut had fallen.
Behind her, the field remained whole.
Ahead of her, the moment unfolded.
Liora understood then: the world does not move toward instances.
Instances open the world.
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