The road narrows without warning.
Not in width, but in attention.
You begin to notice what you were trained to ignore — the pause between sounds, the way distance bends when no one is counting, the feeling that something has already passed through before you arrived.
This land does not perform. It endures.
Stories accumulate here the way dust does: quietly, without asking permission, settling into corners no one checks anymore.
Names have been given to this place and taken away again. Saints, travelers, artists, grifters, pilgrims. Each left something incomplete. Each mistook arrival for understanding.
If you are reading this, you have already crossed a line that cannot be marked on a map. What follows does not need belief. It only requires attention.
Stay long enough and the silence will organize itself.

Leave too quickly and it will follow you anyway.