The wind swept through the Waiting Grounds, carrying with it the metallic taste of burned air. In the distance, the Colossal Gates loomed like the fossilized ribs of some forgotten titan, their cracked surfaces leaking a dim, pulsing glow as though the stone itself was alive. I sat with the Gatefront Wanderers around a dwindling fire, where words dissolved into the restless silence and flickering light.
It was then that one of them brought out what they called The Singularity Map.
It was neither paper nor metal but a thin slab of crystal, its surface alive with shifting veins of light. When the firelight touched it, the veins began to flow like liquid stars, connecting and breaking apart in a chaotic dance.
The woman who led the Wanderers spoke, her voice rough as wind scraping across stone.
“These,” she said, pointing at the lights, “are traces of Memory Singularity Points. They appear when the memory-energy of a world crosses the threshold. Your Earth,” she paused, her eyes narrowing, “is approaching that moment.”
I stared at the network of lights crawling across the map. At its center, a single pulse glimmered brighter than the rest, like the beating heart of some unseen creature. The woman touched it lightly, and Earth appeared—encircled by layers upon layers of concentric rings, each one swelling outward like waves of memory converging upon a single point.
“They watch Earth because when the Threshold of Memory reaches its peak, the Gates will open on their own… perhaps even tear through the walls between realities.”
Her words settled over me like falling ash.
And suddenly, I understood. Earth was not merely a place of flesh and soil. It was a living archive, a convergence of billions of memories weaving themselves into energy dense enough to warp reality itself.
As the map flickered, I felt the uncanny sense that it was not simply an object. It was watching us, as though memory itself carried a will, waiting for the moment when the Singularity would awaken.
