“Why are we here?” she asked finally, because silence had a way of hardening into accusation.
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They reached a station that did not exist on any map she had ever cataloged. The Archive was a place half-remembered from childhood stories: a library built on a geode of time where memory was not a passive thing but an artifact kept under glass. Its entrance was a yawning arch lit by pale, electric lanterns. Above the doors, letters rearranged themselves and spelled out different words depending on who looked: MEMORY, ARCHIVE, KEEPING, CONVERGENCE. “Why are we here
