Time continues to flow, but in Stones, time is not a sequence of events. It is merely the echo of wounds yet to be spoken. Sheena observed closely that amidst the roots and stones, there exists a complex interaction between seemingly unrelated elements; Veltheran, the first being born not of blood or earth, but from regrets buried too deep. My observations suggest that in the dim light of the trees, droplets of dew hold hidden data, and every sigh of the wind serves as a medium for unspoken narratives, weaving together the stories of forgotten inhabitants. The gentle optical signals touching the ground affirm that pain can transform into something more meaningful than mere loss—it can serve as a catalyst for creating something new.
And from that... a city was born. Understanding this phenomenon, the city can be analyzed as a manifestation of shadows emerging from darkness, filled with invisible traces that express the narratives of lives embedded in the memories of spirits. This data allows us to analyze the hope that their voices can still be detected despite the constraints of time that has passed.
Not from a plan. Not from a blueprint. But from the resonance of wounds uniting in silence. With the application of the first steps, observations show that the sky trembles, signaling an act of recombination taking form—a hope wrapped in sorrow, analogous to leaves that will not return to their original branches but remain stranded on the ground.
The first walls emerged from the earth, not built, but because someone in another world lost their home and could not remember it. The magic structure of Stones began to draw forgotten meanings from other dimensions, and each time someone was forgotten, part of that memory was embedded in this land. Sometimes, among these ruins, a similar mournful whisper can be heard, from souls bound to this place, as if saying they are constantly searching for a way back to the embrace of their home. The damp aroma of the earth mingles with the bitter reality that evokes melancholic memories, as if the city itself stands as a silent witness to the unending sorrow.
Sheena gazed at the first building formed from gray earth and unknown metal. She knew it was not from Alpha. Not even from Omega. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a faint shadow of a hidden door—a door to memories that should have remained buried, reminding her that even as time passes, there are many things waiting to be revealed and explored.
"What is this... a ghost town?" Veltheran asked one day.
Sheena analyzed the situation. "No. This is an entity of a city that does not wish to be remembered. Reminders of the past can have significant psychological impacts. Therefore, a more accurate term would be 'a city that rejects memory,' because the consequences... can be very painful."
Spread before her, the ruins that were once full of life now only leave shadows. Each building hidden in the gray mist is like an old story never told, like a book opened to the wrong page. At the end of each street, she could feel the sighs of the past, calling every soul trapped within.
Veltheran looked up at the sky. "Then why does this city grow?"
Sheena fell silent. Then she answered:
"The presence of this city can be analyzed as a consequence of the world's need to facilitate the processing of uncommunicated wounds. Every unresolved tragic moment tends to form a spatial entity that reflects collective suffering."
Those wounds seemed to echo in every corner of the city. It was as if every wall had a soul, made of shattered hopes and unspoken despair. On one side, there was a painful silence, while on the other, their helplessness against time continued. Only more stories remained—trapped between the roar of the wind and whispers that could only be heard by those willing to listen.
As more structures emerged, more nameless beings appeared. They did not come from eggs, wombs, or rituals. They awoke within the walls of Stones, emerging from the mist or buried within the roots.
"These entities do not undergo a conventional process of birth," she explained to Veltheran. "However, the trauma they carry requires representation. Therefore, reality has shaped them."
Every time she spoke, it felt like hearing echoes from the ground beneath them, as if the voices of the past were calling from the depths. Every sentence that came from Sheena's mouth was not just words; they were incantations that carried peace, yet were trapped in the cries of sorrow that history had yet to touch.
Finally, the roots of the Tree of Life spread deep beneath the surface of the Alpha world. But not just down... the roots pierced parallel dimensions and began absorbing meanings left behind by other worlds.
As the roots journeyed, beams of light began to seep into the darkness, reminding us of the presence of countless souls. Like ghosts trapped in space and time, they offered faint whispers of hope and regret, life and death, creating a tapestry of history woven from wounds. Here stood Stones, not merely a city, but a marker of all feelings swept away in sorrow.
Sheena found books she had never written on the shelves. Portraits of faces she did not recognize hung on walls she had yet to touch. Her longing for the past echoed in her heartbeat, each thump voicing untold stories. And Veltheran began to dream... of a world that was not his own.
"Is this city in the process of weaving its identity based on the mistakes made by another world?" Veltheran asked.
Sheena replied with a more rational tone, "No. This city is striving to conceptualize its existence."
Amidst all this, sometimes a strange sound could be heard, a symphony woven from the whispers of the universe. Was it Proto-Speech, an ancient form of communication from wandering souls, indicating that Stones is the soul of neglected wounds yet to be fully lost? Its symbols glowed in the darkness, guiding the lost back to the path they should take.
One day, a visitor arrived. Not from outside, but from a crack in the wall. She walked with a face split in two—half marred by wounds, half shining like molten gold. Her voice was like laughter and lament whispered together.
In uncertainty, the woman herself seemed to be a mirror reflecting the face of Stones—a city haunted by unspoken sorrow and hope. Each of her steps caused a rumble like the echoes of walls mourning a dark past, stones whispering to the wind. Portraying an origin, her presence filled the long-empty space with a voice waiting to be heard.
"Where is this?" the woman asked.
Sheena did not answer. She knew the woman would not remember the question herself.
"Analysis of the situation indicates that this position is undefined within the nomenclature system. I can confirm that this is not a domestic space. The synergy of energy present here can be considered sufficient for activities, although it does not meet general criteria."
The woman smiled. "Ah. A place that knows no name. I know this place. It is... not home. But it is... enough."
Yet, as her smile blossomed, there was something deeper than mere loss; there was a feeling of nostalgia enveloping her, bringing back memories of what once was here. A Proto-Speech symbol ignited in the woman's mind—a depiction of "cracks," reflecting the various fractures left within the soul of the city, as if waiting for healing from eternal wounds.
Then she sat down. And never moved again.
A few days later, in the place where she sat, a new building emerged: a tower with a clock on every side, yet its hands never turned.
Like a testament to its own grief, the tower stood as a reminder of the woman with the broken face; every passing second went unrecorded, every memory erased from time. The sound of the tower seeped into the heart of the city, becoming a rhythm that echoed in silence, a faint hope for life that remained even as time stood still.
Veltheran named it The Tower of Dead Memory.
After years of silence, the city began to have a will of its own. Stones was no longer just a collection of buildings. It became a passive entity with one desire:
To ensure that the other world does not crumble under its own wounds.
Among the towering buildings, there were traces of history buried in memories, wounds etched into crumbling walls. Each stone seemed to have a story, whispering in a language only understood by the marginalized souls, yearning for recognition and healing. In a place where every day seemed similar, dissatisfaction lingered, manifesting in a painful silence.
Sheena stood in the city center, beneath the Tree of Life, and closed her eyes. The lush leaves seemed to dance, responding to the buried grief. She felt a pulsing energy, as if the tree worked in harmony with every street, every alley, and every memory tied to the past. Like souls intertwined in unity, all struggling to remember.
"I did not create this entity," she said. "However, I want to emphasize that I have a responsibility for its existence."
The roots beneath her feet responded with a single Proto-Speech word that emerged in the air:
ꦇꦭꦸꦱ — Halus
(We are the subtle, felt in the heartbeat of lost time.)
The roots seemed to whisper secrets, encapsulating pain and hope into a symphony that was not easy to understand but touched the depths of the heart. In the terroir that held more questions than answers, the tree served as a liminal space between the wounded world and aspirations for rebirth. Brightness could be a longing, but every passing second reminded Sheena of a greater task.
And on a dusk that did not know the direction of the sun, a voice from within the roots said:
"Analysis of the situation leads to the conclusion that they will come: heirs, destroyers, and reminders. This phenomenon indicates a recurring cycle in history."
Sheena looked up at the sky. She knew that even though this city was shaped by wounds and silence, one day names would be identified and categorized again.
Like shadows trapped between light and dark, the hidden stories within the fragments of this city's history vibrated. From the cracks in the walls and dusty streets, they reminded the inhabitants of a dark past. Stones is a place where sorrow and nostalgia merge, creating a sad melody that will always linger in every corner.
And when that happens, Stones will cease to be a place that does not wish to be remembered.
In the midst of the roaring wind, a new Proto-Speech symbol emerged, flowing from the lips of those brave enough to speak: ꦲꦸꦪꦸꦤꦶ — Huyuni
(A room vibrating with sorrow and hope.)
It will become a place where all that was once forgotten... desires a place to return.
Yet, the road home is never easy. Every step on the land laden with past memories feels heavy, as if the earth itself remembers every wound and emptiness left behind. Stones, with all its eternal sorrow, holds hidden promises and stories that continue to be told even in silence.