At the edge of the city stood a gate made of mirrors. No two travellers described it the same way. Some swore it was circular, others hexagonal; a few insisted it had no shape at all.
Liora approached with care. As she moved, the fragments within the gate shifted—colours sliding, angles recomposing. She realised the gate was not opening for her, nor resisting her. It was turning with her.
She stopped walking. The patterns froze.
She stepped again. The gate bloomed into a new order.
Only then did she understand: there was no final picture to arrive at. Passage was not granted by solving the pattern, but by entering its play. She crossed without triumph, carrying no key—only the memory of turning.
No comments:
Post a Comment