The Never Told did not welcome you.
It did not open its arms or echo with applause.
It watched you.
With a silence older than ink.
A silence that didn't simply lack sound—it devoured it. Drowned it. Made you question if you'd ever heard anything at all.
Here, metaphors curdled.
Symbols bled out.
Even archetypes were ash.
You felt your voice tremble before it left your throat—then twist, crumble, and fall to the ground as dust.
This was the place where stories were not killed—
They were unmade.
Not rejected.
Erased.
And yet—
You stepped forward.
The air bit at your skin. Not with cold—but with memory. It made you remember every sentence you deleted out of shame. Every rewrite you did for someone else's comfort. Every time you said, "I'm not a real writer."
Here, those lies had grown claws.
They took shape.
They stalked you.
