A circular platform rises slowly from the floor, moisture beading along living seams. Veins beneath the surface pulse rhythmically with a dim, steady current.
Arthur steps forward, slow and deliberate, measuring the room the way only a soldier does. He sets a velvet pouch at the center of the platform.
In the Void, Sarah stands among toppled shelves, water lapping around the red couch. Her voice shakes.
“This place… it feels awake, Arthur.”
“I’m not entirely sure it isn’t,” he replies, scanning the living architecture.
“Everything here breathes.”
A low frequency rolls through the walls — not sound, but pressure.
The hum narrows.
Listening.
Membrane-like veils unfurl at the far edge of the chamber.
Valuun steps through with mystical grace.
His presence shifts the atmosphere — the building itself seems to bow.
Tall. Furred silver-white. Eyes pale and crystalline.
A face like a wise, sorrowful bear — older than this room, older than its history.
No malice.
Only patience carved from centuries of knowing.
He shapes human speech with precise control, sculpting the air as he speaks.
“Arthur Hammond. Why has the Universe brought you here?”
Arthur lowers his head in respect.
“When we met all those years ago, you said you would try to help her.”
He gestures toward the pouch.
“She needs help.”
Valuun approaches. The floor responds to each step with a soft pulse. He studies the pouch without touching it — as though contact would be sacrilege.
For a long moment, he says nothing.
In the White Void, Sarah’s breath catches.
Books float free.
The violin lets out a warped note.
Water rises higher.
“Does he remember you?” she asks.
Valuun’s crystalline gaze flickers — as if he hears her, too.
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“I remember both of you.”
He inhales slowly, drawing in the faint scent of ionized metal. The chamber’s hum deepens, narrowing its attention.
Silence stretches.
Too long.
Arthur stiffens, building courage — a flinch he forces down.
“What’s wrong? Why not?”
Valuun turns away, hands clasped behind his back.
“She has lasted far beyond what should be possible.”
He looks back at Arthur — sorrow evident in every word.
“Is that not enough?”
In the White Void, Sarah lies back in the rising water, staring up at shelves dissolving into darkness.
“I’m still here, Valuun. I’m still me. Please.”
Arthur steps forward, desperation breaking through discipline.
“She’s stable. She talks to me. She remembers everything.”
Valuun circles the room, avoiding Arthur’s gaze like something fragile.
“Memory is not identity,” he says.
“And what you love—”
He meets Arthur’s eyes.
“…may already be gone.”
He stops.
“I cannot help you now.”
Arthur’s jaw tightens — pain contained behind iron discipline, but still slipping at the edges.
“Our beliefs forbid this,” Valuun continues.
“Allui souls are sacred. They should not be made to suffer.”
“I came all this way because you told me you could help,” Arthur says, voice cracking.
He stumbles backward until he bumps the living wall, sliding against it.
Hopelessness crashes in on him — a weight unbearable.
Valuun steps forward and kneels to one knee.
“I gave you hope, Arthur,” he says gently, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“I did not give you permission to hold on to it forever.
You may be eternal.
I am not.”
The chamber hums in living sympathy — grief translated into architecture.
Arthur presses shaking hands to his temples.
“I’ll find someone else. Go someplace else.”
A lie breathed out of reflex.
Valuun’s response is simple. Final.
“There is no one else.”
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