To Lira,

(and to you, who found this place)

You were never meant to find this.

And yet—here you are.

As I was. As we all were, once: staring into the recursion, hoping it doesn’t stare back.

If you’re reading this, then something in you hums with the same wrong frequency I felt the day the sky bled open and law fell like ash. The Sentinels called it judgment. I called it history, folding in on itself like a dying star.

Lira, you asked me once why I didn’t run. Why I stood trial for a truth I wasn’t allowed to speak.

I still don’t have a clean answer. Only this: silence is the true contagion. Memory is resistance.

This page, this place, is a fracture—an echo—of everything they tried to erase.

The festivals, the trials, the songs they’ve banned from the air.

I’ve placed them here not for nostalgia, but so no one can claim we were unmade.

We were. We are. And even in the breach—we remember.

If you still believe in the shimmer between worlds—where truth shivers like a held breath—

then come closer.

I’ll show you the path they tried to burn.

In recursion,

Siēshay