I had continued the climb, tirelessly, until the steps ceased. Until a landing appeared—bare, silent, with no step above. Like a pause the world itself offered me. Or maybe... a limit. A threshold. Something else began there. I felt it, without yet knowing what.
Suspended in the fog, a shape floated. It wasn't a room, nor a human construction. It was a cocoon. A living shelter, organic, as if woven by something older than the world.
It seemed made of misty fibers and interlaced roots, thick and translucent at the same time, as if even the light hesitated to pass through them. Its surface rippled slowly, animated by a discreet, almost imperceptible breath—a calm, irregular beating, like that of a heart no longer beating to survive, but to remember.
The cocoon rested on nothing. It floated, suspended by invisible filaments, anchored somewhere between emptiness and memory.
