I had thought the promises of Wind were enough to stir unease within me, but what came next carried a sharper edge. Hope had been painted in colors so bright it nearly blinded the crowd; now those same hands that drew visions of paradise revealed the machinery of its birth.
The Ritual of Origin
The followers of Wind’s faction gathered at the center of the plain, erecting structures of glass and metal that shimmered with a faint inner glow. To the unknowing eye they looked like instruments of worship; to me they resembled fragments of memory given shape. Each device pulsed as though it had been fed with something living, as though thought itself had been captured and caged within crystal.
Wind’s voice rose above the hushed assembly:
“The Window of Origin must be opened. Through it, the universe will be cleansed. Through it, we will breathe again.”
The crowd trembled with anticipation. I, however, felt a coldness travel my spine.
The Map of Rebirth
From the center of the ritual platform, a vast map unfolded—not of land or sky, but of memories themselves. Threads of light stretched outward, each one a history, a name, a story. I could see them glimmer like constellations: billions of lives, woven together in luminous strands.
“This,” Wind declared, “is the cartography of existence. Not all of it is worth keeping. Not all of it deserves to persist. To reset reality, we must choose. To awaken a new will, we must decide what remains.”
The words struck the crowd as liberation. They cheered at the idea of discarding pain, excising grief, removing violence from the weave. But to me, it was terror.
The Power to Choose
The devices hummed louder. Followers of Wind moved about the map, marking certain threads to be preserved, others to be erased. Their hands passed through glowing strands as though they were gods plucking stars from the firmament.
“Selected memories will remain,” they announced, “those that serve the vision of the pure dawn. All else will be dissolved.”
I watched one thread dim—an entire lineage fading into silence. Another was set aside, glowing faintly, preserved because it fit their vision. The crowd gasped in reverence, as if witnessing mercy. I saw only cruelty.
The sheer audacity chilled me. To decide which lives, which memories, which truths deserved to endure—that was not liberation. That was dominion.
My Fear
I felt my heart seize. Billions of souls, entire worlds of memory, could be erased with a gesture. What they called cleansing, I saw as annihilation. What they named rebirth, I recognized as control disguised as grace.
And yet the crowd was enraptured, swept by the grandeur of the vision. They believed the Reboot Map to be salvation. I alone stood in its glow and shivered, sensing that once the Window of Origin opened, there would be no turning back.
For the first time, I feared not only what Wind promised, but what she had already begun.
