
Most of the endless halls are empty, echoing with your own steps and little else. Some stretch so far that reaching the other end is no longer considered possible. Visitors speak of walking for hours, even days, before turning back, unsure if the corridor ever truly ends. But rarely, between these stretches of sameness, you might come across a single tree. It isn't grand or glowing, just quietly alive beneath a shaft of light. In scattered records, they're called Memory Stems, named for the way they seem to anchor something forgotten. Those who find one often return changed, not because the tree gives anything, but because it doesn't take. Some believe that if you stare long enough, the Memory Stem emits a low, imperceptible sound, like a distant choir building slowly into something grand. It's not heard, but felt, pressing through the chest like warmth. Others say it offers a moment of stillness strong enough to remind you why you came. In a place where everything feels hollow, the tree is something that stays.
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