It was a room made of silence.
And it did not belong to anyone.
Not a forgotten chamber. Not a secret vault. It wasn't hidden. It wasn't erased. It simply had never been named.
Which made it safe.
Kye sat with Zeraphine at the three-legged table, the surface a blend of wood-grain and shifting memorylight. Nothing in the room declared itself. And nothing asked to be known.
This was not an archive.
It was a pause.
A place where what had once tried to exist but never made it beyond the threshold of words could still breathe.
Zeraphine ran her fingertips along the rim of a clay bowl that hadn't been shaped by hands, but by intention.
"I feel like this is someone's longing," she said softly.
Kye nodded. "Or someone's unspoken apology."
A warm draft passed through the space. It didn't come from any vent. It came from a breath not their own.
The Cathedral held them.
Not like walls.
Like memory that refused to vanish.
> ARTICLE SIXTY-THREE: The room with no name belongs to everyone who was ever made to feel like memory was conditional.
Kye stood and paced slowly.
Each step left a slight ripple—not on the floor, but through the air. As if his movement brushed against something once placed there and now only barely remembered.
He reached the far wall.
It bore no symbols. No language.
Only texture.
A pattern of presence.
A parent's waiting arms. A friend's hesitation at a doorstep. A goodbye that never resolved.
Zeraphine whispered, "They built this for us, didn't they?"
Kye looked back.
"No. They built it for themselves. We were just finally quiet enough to be let in."
The Cathedral pulsed gently. Not to confirm.
To thank.
The Chronicle flame flickered—not outward.
Inward.
And a new line formed:
> "You may leave nothing here and still be welcome."
Kye sat again.
Zeraphine folded her hands in her lap.
Neither spoke.
There was no need.
The room did not keep records.
It kept space.
And in doing so, it kept them.