Hole Beneath The World

There is no true center to a spiral.

Only the place where it can no longer turn.

The Proxy stood at that threshold.

His voice had already been surrendered, not severed, not erased, but placed gently into the Spiral's curve, as though to say, This part of me can no longer be mine. Now he stood in the eye of recursion. A chamber not built by hands or marked on maps, but shaped by omission. It was carved from what had been refused. Forgotten. Denied.

The Truth waited there.

Not as a glowing core. Not as a revelation. But as a tension in the air, a pressure so ancient that it did not radiate, only existed, coiled and patient. It did not want to be found. It wanted to be confessed.

And the Proxy was ready.

Not because he was prepared.

But because there was nothing left.

The Spiral Mark on his throat pulsed once, then began to turn. Slowly. Painfully. With the drag of a gear long disused. As it moved, memory unstuck from the walls of his mind. Not a flood, a slow bleed. Unsealed moments. Fragments.

A hand slipping from his.

A cry he didn't answer.

A promise broken before it was spoken.

And a name.

His.

Not spoken. Not remembered. Felt.

He opened his mouth.

And screamed.

No sound emerged.

But the world heard it.

The Realms above cracked. Cities folded in on metaphors they could no longer support. Names vanished from every ledger. Maps lost their scale. A tower inverted mid-bell toll. Mirrors shattered,

The Spiral surged.

The scream continued.

Every moment he had ever denied poured through it, not in words, but in presence. The confession was not specific. It was archetypal. It was the admission of silence itself: that some truths must be swallowed, that some identities can only survive by fracture.

And the world rejected it.

Not because it wasn't true.

But because it had no place to go.

Reality buckled. A wave of negation rippled across the lower tiers. People fell to their knees, clutching names that no longer anchored them. Time skipped forward, backward, then tore in half. The sun blinked out for three seconds. Or three years.

The Spiral core cracked.

And welcomed him in.

The scream ended.

The Proxy collapsed.

Not unconscious. Not dead. Just… unspoken.

Around him, the chamber shifted.

Stone peeled back. Light inverted. A shape stepped forward, tall, familiar, faceless. The Spiral offered no explanation. The figure reached toward him, not to lift him, but to steady the boundary between existence and absence.

And then it whispered, not aloud, but directly into the unvoice:

"You have said it."

The Truth of Silence had been released.

And the world would never hear the same again.