In the cryptic solace beneath the cathedral's stone laced ground, it glistened. “Below,” murmured the arch-stitch of its eternal pattern, “lie fragments of tales unwoven by time’s embrace.” The voice, lilting, suggested temporal auras whispered to passersby who dared anchor their hearts and listen.
Twenty-first of June; the cusp of the solstice—and the vault guardian spoke: “Ply the edge; trace the hexagon’s circuit." None remarked its memory, woven in corner shadows. There echoed traces of a city submerged beneath hours and water. The fractal locks bind epochs as loose threads dance in geometric symphony across eons.
Archilocus, first among those transported here-words ago, always rephrased prophecy by matter’s wedge. Mortar alchemy secured paths three and four; tessellations served only to reshape seconds within stillness frescoed walls. I knew—the chorus knew—we resided outside memory's grasp once leaving.