The wind had gone silent. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Before me, in the center of the ancient hall, the structure rose—vast and circular, made of light that looked neither solid nor real. The Primordial Window. The first and the last. It pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the universe, whispering in a language older than time.
The Ritual Begins
Wind stood before it, her robes glimmering like fractured dawn. Around her, followers of the new will knelt in perfect rhythm, hands raised to the luminous rings that spun slowly above the floor.
“This is the threshold,” she said. Her voice trembled not with fear, but with faith. “Through it, we cleanse all that binds existence to pain. Through it, we shall begin again.”
As she spoke, the air rippled. Symbols of light began to rotate within the circle—each representing a memory, a soul, a fragment of history about to be rewritten.
I felt the pull of the Window even from where I stood. It wasn’t gravity, but intent. As though the cosmos itself wanted to be reborn, even if it meant erasing what it once was.
The Father’s Dilemma
I could not move. I could not speak.
If I stopped her, I would become the heretic—the one who resisted “liberation.” Billions believed in her promise, in her light. But if I stayed silent, I would become something worse: a witness who allowed the annihilation of every memory that gave life its shape.
I saw faces—my son, my wife, our home, and the sky before all of this began. Their laughter echoed faintly through the spinning rings, like distant memories begging not to be erased.
Wind looked back at me. There was pity in her gaze, but also certainty. “You fear loss,” she said, “because you have not yet understood purity. To begin again, we must empty ourselves completely.”
Her words were beautiful. Terrible.
And yet, somewhere deep within me, the whisper of the Primordial Memory stirred again: “Their will is not new. It is the echo of the Origin.”
The Door of Creation
The Window began to open.
Light poured outward, folding reality into spirals. The walls trembled; time itself seemed to stutter, replaying moments in flickering loops. Followers wept with joy, reaching toward the radiance.
I saw threads of memory unravel—names, laughter, histories. Entire worlds dissolved into light, their essence drawn toward the Window’s center like water into a drain.
For a moment, I saw the other side. Not darkness—something worse. Emptiness wearing the mask of peace.
Was this the freedom they had promised? A reality without sorrow, yes—but also without remembrance, without meaning?
The Choice
Wind raised her arms. “The old order ends tonight.”
I stepped forward. My voice trembled. “And what of us? What of who we were?”
Her smile was almost kind. “We will no longer need to be.”
Silence fell. The world waited. The Window pulsed once more—then split, revealing a light that could erase even the concept of self.
In that heartbeat, I understood the truth. Whether I acted or stood still, the outcome was the same: the cycle would turn again, wearing a new name, a new dawn.
The universe would forget it had forgotten.
The Echo of the End
The hall erupted in light. Wind’s voice merged with the roar of creation reborn.
And amid that radiance, I whispered to myself:
“If we open the Primordial Window… will it be freedom—or just another chain?”
The light answered with silence.
